The Beanbag

I feel as though my personal space gets perpetually smaller by the minute. It started a few years back when we bought our dog a nice “doggy bed” to sleep on. At least that was the idea. But Elka would sniff the bed, walk around it a few times, scratch at it and then walk around it again before jumping on the couch to sleep on my legs. And it didn’t matter how big the couch was either as she always rested her paws and chin on my lap. I’d try to scoot her over but it was no use. It’s not easy moving a 70 lb boxer when she doesn’t want to move. And then she’d snore like a sailor.

Yet back then I could still see the TV. Now I have a 6 year old who jumps on my back when my 5 year old climbs on my lap while my 3 year old thinks it’s funny to “spank dad’s butt” while I try to watch SportsCenter. I feel like a human beanbag with too few beans.

I don’t know why we invest in larger couches, recliners or chairs when the kids think it’s perfectly fine to treat dad like a tree fort. When we sat down on the couch to watch 101 Dalmatians, everyone was comfortable except me. I couldn’t see the TV, my legs and arms had gone to sleep and my dog drooled on my leg. 

But I cherish these times because I know it won’t be long before it won’t be cool to sit by dad. So right now, I don’t pluck them off me.

Until Lincoln gives me a “wet willy”.