The heartbreak kid

Posted Feb 6, 2009 by Mike Winter

Updated Feb 6, 2009 at 08:30 PM

And here I thought dragging our daughter with us to look at furniture would be a torturous ordeal for everyone involved. I thought there would be tears. I thought there would be tantrums. I thought there would be incessant complaints about tired feet, full bladders and that weird man following us around asking questions about the dimensions of our living room and whether or not we were prepared to “take it to the next level of fabric sophistication.”

“ And I was right. All those things happened. But damn it, my feet hurt and that guy was creepy. How should I know if I prefer chenille or twill on a sofa? I wouldn’t know chenille if it conked me on the head, hog tied me and locked me in a secluded tool shed to perish.

I suppose it was more of an ordeal for some than others. I won’t make excuses for my lack of enthusiasm. I still mourn the couch from my bachelor days. Long, overstuffed and molded to my unique form like a body glove after years of dedicated lounging, I could stretch out on it for hours without having to switch positions to revive a numbed butt or regain the feeling in my legs. Now THAT was a couch. But because it had some minor damage due to my cat sharpening its claws on the arms, and a few places where the stuffing was coming out, and one or two stained cushions where hairballs were coughed up (at least, I’ve always assumed they were hairballs) I had to pitch it when it came time to merge all her things with all my things. At least I was able to salvage the hall table and the arm chair that doubled as a TV tray, although now that I’m thinking about it, I haven’t seen that armchair for quite some time.

Still, I wasn’t the only one suffering that endless afternoon. My daughter suffered too, just not for the reasons I thought she would. Instead of a bored five-year-old trudging past a mind-numbing variety of recliners, loveseats, ottomans and media centers, she was a princess-in-waiting browsing among the accoutrements of her future castle. With a surprisingly critical eye she evaluated form and function, decreeing opinions swiftly and dispassionately.

“That couch is too brown,” she said. “And its got too many corners.” I had to agree about the color, but I’ve never really had a clear idea how many corners were too many when it comes to sofas. Obviously, my preschooler had already progressed beyond my limited knowledge of furniture aesthetics. A leather recliner met with her approval –  “A queen could sit on that,” – she assured me, but the wicker end table had “too many holes. If I spilled my drink on it, it would go right through and get the floor all wet instead of just the top of the table.”

The fact that this actually made sense to me is a testament to the steady decline of my mental state as we stumbled on, arms outstretched, toward the ever-retreating mirage of furniture perfection, hoping the next showroom would quench our thirst for a sectional that wasn’t too ostentatious or a divan that was divine. (Actually, these were my wife’s hopes. I just wanted a bottle of Gatorade and a place to collapse. I KNEW I should have hydrated better for this expedition.) 

Eventually we found ourselves at Ethan Allen. We had no delusions. We were there just to gawk at all the nice stuff we could never afford. My daughter, however, was unaware of this. Like a missile locked on target she honed in on a four-poster bed the size of a dance floor, repelled up the side with a hitherto unknown agility and spread out over the sheets. “Leave me here,” she instructed. “This is my bed now.”

“You like this bed?” I asked, merely for the sake of conversation. The pillows alone were $400.

“The whole room, Daddy. I want the whole room. I can be a princess here.”

“The child likes the bed,” a tall, brittle saleswoman said with what I took to be a certain aristocratic distain.

“Yeah, she likes unicorns and fairies too.”

“Here.” She held out a glossy card with a picture of the bed on it. “For your daughter. Perhaps her birthday is approaching?”

Sure lady, I’d love to buy my kid a bed that costs more than …. I turned the card over and scanned the prices… my first two years of college. Nothing but the best for my little darling.

I didn’t say that, of course. I just thanked her and dragged Tess off the “princess bed” kicking and screaming. She continued to sob all the way home. Once there she climbed into her “teeny little bed” and shed a few more tears into her “plane nothing pillow” and eventually fell asleep, one arm draped longingly over the glossy advertisement for her dream bed.

I knew furniture shopping could be a torturous ordeal. I just never suspected it could set the stage for such heartrending drama.

Sigh. I really miss my old couch.