The great cover-up

In the life of any family, there are many milestones. Weddings. A first home. Perhaps children. Going into debt to pay for the children's education. Emerging from debt approximately 78 years later.

This week we have achieved a milestone worthy of celebration. A milestone we have longed for. Dreamed of. Wondered if it would ever come. We are, finally, the proud owners of our first-ever grown-up sofa.

It sits regally in its spot in the study, gleaming leather, smooth curves, not a blemish anywhere.

And my first instinct is to cover it up.

This instinct comes, I am sure, from my mother. Everything in our house when I was growing up was covered with a sheet. My mother considered this necessary to protect the furniture from we wild things who roamed the house, bent on wreaking havoc and destruction on my parents' hard-earned sofas and chairs. Even my father was never allowed to sit on anything that wasn't covered. The house looked perpetually like we were getting ready to move.

The sheets never matched, either. The living room couch might be covered in plain white, and the two chairs opposite it might sport lavender flowers and Holly Hobbie. This did not bother my mother a bit, so long as the fabric was protected.

The only time the sheets came off was when we had guests. The unveiling of the furniture was accompanied by great fanfare, as we all stood around trying to remember what the furniture looked like under the sheets: "I TOLD you it had blue stripes!" "Did this always have pink flowers?"

Hardly had our guests backed out of the driveway when my mother would bustle to the linen closet and bring out the sheets. She could not rest until everything was covered again. I am surprised we ever bothered to have guests.

These were not museum-quality pieces of furniture we are talking about. But no matter -- we could have had castoffs donated by passersby, hardly any of the color left on them, and my mother would still have insisted that they be covered. And the furniture remained covered well into our adulthood, long after it was in any danger from us.

So as I look at our beautiful new grown-up sofa, I can hear my mother's horrified voice: "You SIT on that without a SHEET?" Yes, we do. And we love it.

But maybe if my mother comes to visit, I'll cover it up for her.