Last Saturday was the kind of day that begins civilized enough - you know - chocolate croissants and strawberries - but around mid-day turns into a free-for-all with the kids toys strewn all over the house and you taking a rubber mallet and a crowbar to the couch. See about six years ago, our dog decided to eat a hole in the back cushion and the couch has never been the same. Some would argue (I would) that the end of the beginning came when the manager at our old apartment complex decided it was time to re-roof. This fine dust shook out of the ceiling and landed on the couch and instantly became ground in. But the demise of the couch has increased with the addition each kid. Our daughter sits at one end and eats her Amaranth flakes there (the side the dog chewed oddly enough) and well...it pretty much became her little nest. She stuffed her My Little Ponies underneath the cushions along with what appeared to be a whole box of cereal and crayons and money and, and, and. The kids liked to jump on the couch just to see all the crap fall out of it. Anyway, last Saturday we said goodbye to all that and pried the couch apart and took it to our local garbage collection site. I wanted to get out the chainsaw because for me, firing up the chainsaw is the adult equivalent of dancing the Hokey Pokey. It's what it's all about.
We didn't take pictures. Because to have thought about taking pictures. Taking pictures. Would have taken us out of the experience. We would have been projecting into the future. So as much as you'd like to see our destroyed couch, I can't accommodate such a requests. Sorry. Next time. Next time.