Everyone with children under a certain age has a space in their home that they’ve just given up on.
For as much as my wife likes order and insists on keeping the house clean at all times, over the past two years she’s slowly ceded the 4ft.x 6ft. area behind the sofa to the unwieldy whims of our 5 year-old daughter. It’s like what would happen in Black Hawk Down occurred in the Doc McStuffins universe. That area is a pastel and plastic failed state festooned with toy food, doll hair, dried Play-Doh, puzzle and game pieces as well as torn coloring book pages and a couple of packages of Annie’s Cheddar Bunnies for good measure.
And we’ve totally given up on trying to keep it clean. Like, all we can really do now is employ a sort of containment strategy that, while not legally bonding, tacitly affirms that the area is the child’s to settle and use for purposes she deems necessary and that she will not attempt to occupy other portions of the living room, dining room, kitchen, or guest bedrooms without prior authorization and a resolution from the Security Council (even though she’s attempting to establish a colony under the dining room table).
That area of the house is the one place that we’ve just agreed that we don’t see.
The back of the sofa is the un-gentrifiable blight within our own home.
No one over 4 feet tall threatens to venture back there for fear of stepping on something slimy, something sticky, something gooey, or a Lego.
If you typed “Fuck it” into Google Maps, it would give you directions to the back of the sofa in my house.
If my mother-in-law fell down into the area behind the sofa, I’d tell my wife that we need to get her a new mom.
My daughter could establish an underground toddler fighting ring and base it behind the sofa and I’d have no idea it was going on.
I’m pretty sure if I walked all the way into the area behind the sofa, I’d find the portal to the place where all the other socks are.
I bet Barb is still alive in the area behind my sofa.
The eye of Sauron can’t see the area behind my sofa.
The area behind my sofa is technically governed by maritime law.
Although Chicago is located in the Central Time Zone, time moves about eleven minutes slower in the area behind my sofa (that’s how pizza crusts and half finished juice boxes stay fresh back there).
When other children come to our house to play, we tie a rope around their waists and tether them to the banister before we let them go into the area behind the sofa. We also make their parents sign a release.
I’d feel bad about it, but I’ve been to enough of my friends’ houses to recognize that, even if it’s not the area behind the sofa, there’s a corner or a basement or a bedroom that’s just totally gone to shit. And they’re okay with it. So I’m okay with it to just so long as no one asks me to go back into that pile of Mattel inspired evil to find a gotdamn thing.