We had to get rid of our old sofa sectional recently. It had been a good and faithful friend for many years. We got it right after we got back from Chicago. The kids literally grew up on that sofa. It gave me a comfortable place to sleep when I was uber-pregnant, I timed my contractions (for Monkey) on it, and I nursed both babies on the chaise part of the sofa. And it became my bed when my poor hip joint couldn’t take side-sleeping anymore.

Eventually it began to show its well-used years. Mr. Prairie did something to the back cushion on his side; it became a misshapen lump only vaguely resembling a sofa cushion. I had to stomp it into submission whenever Nana came over, just so she could sit there. The seat cushion on my chaise first developed a rip in the fabric, then gradually the deeper layers of foam began to separate until it also got uncomfortable to sleep on.

My parents, bless their hearts, go through den furniture like nobody’s business. This latest time when my mom decided to redecorate her den, she informed me that we needed her old sofa and comfy chair with ottoman. The chair and ottoman is pretty comfy even though it is totally not my style and will be replaced as soon as we get around to it, but the sofa, while rather innocuous looking, is evil.

It hurts my hip, my back, and my sense of aesthetics. It will be replaced as soon as humanly possible. In the meantime, I have dubbed it the Widow-maker.

I think it’s trying to kill me.

As parents, we find ourselves saying things that, when child-free, we never imagined that we would say. Things like, “Don’t spit on the window, that’s gross!” “No, you can’t have cotton candy for dinner.” “Don’t eat crayons.” and the parental standard, “Because I said so, that’s why.” But the one thing I find myself saying the most, or asking rather, is: “Why are you naked?”

And I found myself asking just that question this morning, early this morning. I woke up at about 4:30 this morning, only three hours after I got to sleep. You see, I had made the mistake of eating after I got home from work, then taking an allergy pill, and then conking out on the Widow-maker (the sofa). At 4:30 on this ill-fated morning, I woke with the worst heartburn. I got up, moved over to the comfy chair and tried, in vain, to go back to sleep. (I can’t sleep on our bed right now, the mattress is more uncomfortable than the Widow-maker.) Monkey came stumbling in at about 6 a.m., grumbled a bit, and fell back asleep on the sofa.

At 6:30 am, I was just starting to doze off again when Pumpkin put in an appearance, wrapped in her blanket. She wasn’t interested in going back to sleep, she wanted to play. I got her a cereal bar, turned on some cartoons, told her to be quiet, and went back to sleep. Some time later, I woke up and looked over at my little blanket-wrapped sweetie. The blanket wasn’t completely wrapped around her and I could tell she was no longer wearing her shirt.

“Why are you naked?” I asked for about the millionth time. “That because I took off my clothes,” she answered. (I was a little shocked, it’s mostly been rhetorical until this point.)

Turns out she was starkers; I gotta remember to wash that blanket. So I stumbled around, found some mismatched shorts and shirt for her, and managed to put the shirt on top and the shorts on bottom. I still can’t tell if she just likes to be au naturel or if she likes to change clothes a lot. After we got home from Mayfest today, she decided that her current dress just wouldn’t do. She stripped down and demanded a new shirt. Right now she’s on outfit-of-the-day number 4 (if you count the blanket-toga).

This is why I can’t get ahead on the laundry.

Before you freak out and start checking local hospitals to find out where to send flowers, I’m perfectly fine and it wasn’t as serious as it sounds. Let me just state for the record that people drive way too fast and/or recklessly in our neighborhood, especially in front of the school.

I had just collected Monkey from school and we were walking back to the car when one of his friends hollered at him and asked us to follow him to his house, so I answered back that we had to go to the store. We had just reached the front of the car and I was trying to get Monkey to his door safely (thank goodness I was walking to the outside) when something bumped into my elbow. I thought somebody was trying to get my attention, turned out to be the driver’s side mirror of a car! He got my attention alright, but apparently I didn’t get his. He kept driving.

I am extraordinarily lucky that it was not more serious. It didn’t really hurt that much, just made my arm felt like I’d bumped my funny bone, hard. Well, my arm felt funny and I was trying to shake it off and making a pained face when Mr. Prairie asked my why I hadn’t screamed when the guy hit me. I’ll tell you why, because being hit by a car is just such a stunning experience that I was shocked into silence. Even more shocking, the guy just kept driving. Mr. Prairie said he did slow down a bit, but since I wasn’t lying in a bloody, mangle heap in the road, he just kept driving.

Then Mr. Prairie asks me, “Is it that serious?” And I answered, “No, it just feels like when you bump your elbow really hard, because, you know, A CAR HIT ME!” And he just kept driving. If I’d had the foresight to plan for the day when I was bumped by a car,  I would’ve banged on the car Midnight Cowboy-style and yelled, “I’m walkin’ here!” But alas, who plans to be HIT BY A CAR?!

Monkey, who was holding my other hand when the guy hit me with his car, and did I mention, just kept driving, seemed to be unaffected. We proceeded to the grocery store and got our shopping done. (One child per cart, trust me on this one!) When we were done and loading up the Prairie Family Truckster, Monkey spotted a semi  backing up to the store’s loading dock. It was backing up and beeping and he panicked. He was sure the truck would hit us all (it was quite a ways away), so he hurled himself out of the cart and demanded that we all get in the car. RIGHT NOW!!!!

Even though I wasn’t really hurt, he had just seen his mama get hit by a car. He’s way more sensitive than he lets on. Monkey did not calm down until I was safely in the car.

By the way, I plan to lead every conversation with, “I got hit by a car,” at least for a couple of days.