I have this theory that an unmade bed leads the whole day awry. Yes, I am one of those nutty people that can’t stand to see my bed a mess and if by some strange occurrence I don’t get it made all day, I will do it at bedtime before climbing in. There is nothing like the reward of crisp sheets, fluffy pillows and a squishy comforter after a long mommy-day. I have a serious love for my bed. And I love it even more when it’s made.
But, occasionally, time gets the best of me and it waits, a rumpled pile of sheets and blankets, until I find a tiny nook of time in which to get it done. Yesterday, that didn’t happen until late, at which point the calamity of my day made perfect sense. “Oh, the bed wasn’t made!” I thought. “That explains it!”
The details of yesterday’s domestic dysfunction are now vague; several tantrums occurred – the drama du jour for two of my children these days – a pant-less trip to Riley’s gymnastics for Finn, and complete destruction of our stairway carpeting by Logan and a tube of the most ridiculous fuchsia lipstick I have ever seen. Stanley Steamer is coming tomorrow.
I swear the money hemorrhage never ends.
And today is another day. Another wet, soggy, gray, thunderous day. But our bed is made and this mama is ready to face it head on.