Dear Couch,

I feel bad now that we never gave you a name other than “Couch.”  I suppose that can be part of this apology, then.

It’s not  you, it’s me.  You’ve been a good couch.  Great, even.  You’ve seen your share of snuggling.  You’ve happily allowed yourself to be smeared with baby food and snot and saliva and lord knows what else.  You patiently endured a move across town, and then another one across the country.

You were my first “real” piece of furniture.  You made our first apartment a home.  Many great friends have had a seat on you.

You, see, Couch, I really do care.  That’s why I’m not putting you out on the curb to languish in a dump. I’m not even selling you off to the highest bidder on Craiglist.

I promise you’ll be happy in the basement, Couch.  You’ll be an integral part of the playroom down there.  Don’t worry that we might not get to setting it up for…oh, a year or so.  You’ll be fine.  We’ll come downstairs and visit, I promise.

Don’t be too jealous of the new sectional, either.  If you’re feeling gracious, you can even warn him what he’s in for.

Because, let’s face it, this family isn’t easy on furniture.

Love,

Emma