I have a confession....

Confession time. I’m going to tell you something which may change how you think of me. After this I may lose your patronage. You may never read this blog again. You may unfollow. Unlike. Unfriend. Whatever. I’ve thought long and hard about divulging this information and have decided that it’s the only way forward - the only way I can move one.  I need to be open about this. And honest. So here goes. Deep breath...

My couch is cushion-less. In fact – there are no cushions in my living room. But it gets worse. There are no cushions in my bedroom either. In fact – there are no cushions in my house. Yes that’s right. My house is cushion free. I know I have probably lost any respect you may have had for me as a crafter, as a mother, as a homemaker, indeed even as a human being. I mean, what self-respecting middle class inner suburban Melbourne woman lives in such a puritanical, hard and ungenerous fashion without so much as an op-shopped hand crafted or a chevron screen printed pillow to alleviate the blankness of the leather three-seater against the wall?? I mean, even the Neanderthals in their caves probably had cushions!

Sure, there have been cushions in the past. I’ve even shown them on the blog, here, and perhaps in doing so misled you, dear reader, as to my lifestyle of choice. It’s not that I don’t know how to make a cushion. I know! I even know how to poof it up and place it against an armrest in a way that is pleasing to the eye. Jeepers! I’ve even made cushions for friends and loved ones. 

There was a time, somewhere many years (and a few babies) ago that there were soft colourful squares of fabric filled with a fluffy substance and trimmed in red piping that snuggled into my back as I watched television. When looking at old photographs I sometimes spy them in the background and feel a blush of shame creep across my cheeks. 

What on earth happened to me? I know you are wondering. I mean, what could make someone lose all sense of comfortable living? Could there even be an excuse for such extreme deprivation?

Let me say just a few words in my defense: 

Three. Children. Under. Two. 

When these three preschoolers took the term “scatter cushions” to be a verb rather than a noun and had to act on that imperative as soon as they entered a room, I tried very hard to keep up. I picked those things up every five minutes. I placed them in a colour co-ordinated fashion on the couch.  I patted them and gently squeezed them into uniform shapes.  I even tried to nonchalantly toss them into position to get that not-trying-too-hard-look-because-I’m-realitic-and-know-my-home-will-never-be-design-files-worthy. 

But then one day I snapped like a well sprung mouse trap. I simply couldn’t stand it any longer. I unstuffed those fabric pouches, squished the bloody lot into a plastic tub, covered it over with a pile of blankets and placed the tub at the bottom of all the other plastic tubs in the craft room like a guilty murderer disposing of a body. Sometimes, when I’m in the craft room searching for supplies, I see them out of the corner of my eye, squashed and misshapen against the clear plastic side and I shudder a little and avert my gaze.

 

Since then, as a host, I have subjected my guests, old or young, big or small, to an uncomfortable semi-reclining position on the couch regardless of whether they are watching television or eating or having afternoon tea. Admittedly, the position does put a slight strain on the neck and puts pressure the core muscles which undoubtedly stultifies conversation. Occasionally it results in a bit of spillage.  The absence of back support is like the elephant in the room. 

Right now, the couches sit looking cold, empty and lonely. Unadorned and neglected. There is a distinct chill to the room. Not even the addition of an extensive 70’s wood veneer Noblett wall unit has helped warm the atmosphere. Sometimes I have to avoid the room altogether and so, I admit, the Noblett goes unpolished. 

I’m writing this confession in the hope of a brighter future. Surely this is the first step. Acceptance. Honesty. There. I’ve told you. I have no cushions, of the throw, scatter, floor or even novelty variety. I promise to try to change. I promise that I will start to see cushions in the way they have been intended. Not as devices of torture my children use to drive me to the mad house. Not as large squares of rubbish that litter every corner of my house. Not as something always out of place and undone that requires my constant attention until I am hiding in the corner of the laundry  curled into a ball, rocking back and forwards while humming the theme song from "Rosemary's Baby".   

To put it simply, I will try to not see cushions as chaos incarnate…..but rather as civilised puffs of comfort that improve lifestyle, friendship, family and harmony. From this day forward, I am going to try and look at a cushion without requiring anti-anxiety medication. I’m going to try and see cushions as simply friendly – why even benign- pieces of soft home furnishing.

With your help, fellow bloglandians, I am going to embark on project cushion.