Under the Covers

So you walk into my bedroom at almost any given time of the day, and you will usually find a made bed.
It's not made like magazine made.
It's probably not even made like normal made, but I will say that I take great pride in the wrinkly imperfections of my bed making.

There is nothing more peaceful to me than my bedroom.
I especially like those first moments that I wake up and my warm nuzzled feet slide across the end of the sheets to a cooler, fresher spot.

I can breathe in my room. I can just take a deep breath and roll around on dog hair sprinkled covers.

I can jump on the bed and it won't look any worse than it did before.

I can fold laundry, have serious conversations, laugh and tickle, and it really can't go wrong because it was never really right.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that the imperfection is okay with me in my room.

I tend to like things just right, but in here "just right" never even seems like a goal trying to be reached.

It's just right in all of it's wrong.

and trust me--there's a lot of wrong, especially probably by your standards.

We've been in our house for a year and a half now, and there have been so many sweet memories already in this bedroom. The building of the room, moving in our bed, the endless and countless days I spent sick in bed while I was pregnant, the short nights I slept in bed during the new born days, the sweet mornings we spend tickling now in bed.

I just love my bed.

It's not unhealthy--dorky, yes but unhealthy no.

If I could live in my room I might.

Labradoodle hair and all.