Marks on the Furniture

No home could possibly be perfect.

Even the most pristine of abodes must have memories hidden under coats of touch-up paint.  Even the wealthiest, the cleanliest, the most organized of residents must certainly harbor evidence of imperfection that makes them cringe.

The other day, as I bustled around my home in a fit of what can only be described as Spring Cleaning, I came upon a few marks on the furniture.

A cluster of dings on the coffee table:

The most adorable cluster of dings, to be sure!  This is the first of the furniture that my baby made his mark on, practicing his motor skills with a set of plastic coasters.

A totally thrashed kitchen table:

About three years ago, my husband and one of our dear friends began home brewing beer.  Their brew sessions became an awesome time for them to connect and experiment.  One of those experiments resulted in my husband and our friend pounding large ziplock bags full of hops and grains on the kitchen table with my rolling pins.  Our friend gave his life for his country the next year... but the divots and speckles he smashed into our table remain.

Wax splotches on the couch:

My husband and I have two different recollections of what really happened here.  He remembers throwing a pillow at me and knocking over a burning candle.  I remember him blowing that candle out like the Big Bad Wolf on his fiftieth birthday.  Either scenario makes me chuckle.

Ice cream drips on the antique trunk:

One evening, in our perilous first year of marriage, I became so frustrated with my husband that I temporarily abandoned my ability to reason and hurled my bowl of ice cream across the room.  I remember slipping away, afterwards, to lock myself in the bathroom and have a good cry.  When I came back out, the pieces of broken bowl had been picked up and the ice cream carefully cleaned from the carpet.  I cannot remember what I was so upset about.

Nail polish on the couch cushion:

I confess, I painted one of my dog's toenails bright red.  He was a very good sport about it, but didn't grasp that he needed to wait to play until the polish dried.

I'll mention here that it would be a presumptuous fib to state I've purposely been keeping these marks where they are.  The marks on the furniture are by no means a conscious exercise in humility.

Chip in one of the nice salad plates:

There is no story behind the chipping of the plate.  It happened.  The chipped piece was tenderly glued back onto the plate and now it is a reminder of a declaration I made when I first began keeping house...

I never want to be the type of person who freaks out over a broken dish.  I want my home to be comfy, not perfect.

The marks on the furniture make me cringe, but here they are and here they shall remain.  Perhaps, if you come for a visit, you'll help us make a few more.