I know you're upstairs, looking disheveled, feeling ignored.

I know my husband tossed his shirts on your headboard, I know there is a semi-wet towel on the foot of you. 

I know there is a mountain of blankets and your sheet in the middle. 

I know the dog napped on your decorative pillows today. 

I know you are begging to be made. 

But I will not make you today, and maybe not tomorrow. 

One day I will. 

Not today.

And I will not apologize.

In the past, on the days where I have not attended to you, when I have not made you with loving care, tucking your sheets along your sides and smoothing our your pillows, I have felt apologetic, even shameful. 

People who make their beds everyday are organized, smart, calm, collected, right?

What does that make me if I have not?

By not making you, have I failed the lessons of my mother? 

Am I failing to set a good example for my son? 

Am I missing an opportunity to feel more fulfilled in life?

No, silly. 

You are a bed.

I may have chosen to read another chapter in a book. 

I may have wrestled for five more minutes on the floor with my son. 

I may have brewed fresh tea for my husband. 

One day when I didn't make the bed, I simply ran around the back yard with the dog, leaving fresh footprints in the snow.

No one in the world, not one person, noticed the bed was not made, except for me.

And you, the bed.

Which is my point -- you are a bed. 

You don't have feelings. 

You don't have fingers, so you can't update Facebook to let anyone know. 

And you have no agenda to 'teach' me any life lessons I should be learning.

You are a gift, a blessing, a warm place to sleep every night. 

And for that I thank you.

But I am done wasting time feeling bad about not making you in the morning, or the afternoon, or even in the evening.

I have a beautiful two year-old who would like to learn to stand on his own someday. 

I have paint that is begging to be used, scones that want to be enjoyed, a bath that wants to be poured. 

I will get to you when I get to you. 

And I will appreciate the sight of a freshly made bed when it happens.

But until then, you may sit, unmade, now and then. 

And when you do, I ask you to smile, not feel forgotten, for somewhere in the house it has allowed us the time to practice joy, and love, and standing, and baking, and painting, and breathing deep.

In exchange, I will not feel apologetic, or like I'm failing, or frazzled and embarrassed. 

You are a bed.  

It'll be ok. 

Everything will be ok.

See you tonight.



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