Thursday, June 12, 2008

An Unmade Bed

I am one of those people who believes a bed should be made every day. If Ken leaves before I do, I make it after getting out of the shower and while waiting for the tea kettle to come to a boil. There are a slew of other chores to tend to, like doling out breakfast to Duncan and the cats, who yowl and pace back and forth, their tails sharply upright in anticipation of their morning kibble, packing up my breakfast and lunch (Yo-Curt with fresh berries, a turkey or peanut butter sandwich and a Pink Lady apple for my afternoon snack) and making the rounds to confirm the windows are closed and locked. Somewhere amid all that the bed gets made, the comforter gets folded nicely and placed at the foot of the bed and the pillows get fluffed in preparation of the hours Olive will spend lounging on them, her belly spread out around her. A made bed is important to me if only because it's so much nicer to climb into at night, and on those mornings when Ken is still asleep when I leave, nothing irks me as much as coming home to discover he forgot to make the bed. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of more important issues to be outraged about (Bush, the War, lack of universal health care, Bush, the price of gas, Bush) but there is something so simple and solvable about making a bed that it seems there's no reason not to do it.

Like sharks to chum, Duncan and the cats are drawn to the bed by the mere presence of one of their two-legged companions. They can not resist, circling slowly before moving in, eyes locked on their target, then sidling up and hunkering down. Come home and lay down for only a moment and you'll find Winnie and Pip vying for rock-star parking on your chest as Olive makes a nest in the crook of your elbow while Duncan slides up against you and spoons. It's like instant Valium and down you go. Before you know it you've been asleep for hours, the animals purring and snoring all around you, their bodies warm little pillows that rise and fall in a slow, sleepy rhythm. Luckily I've developed a slightly stronger resistance to their spell than Ken, who quite often sleeps through his alarm because "the children were just so cuddly."

This morning after taking Duncan out, Ken jumped into the shower and by the time he was done, all four of them had taken up their spots, curling up in the folds of the comforter, nestling between the pile of pillows, slipping between the sheets and tucking their delicate little paws under their chins like chubby-faced cherubs resting on clouds of cottony fluff. Ken stood there and watched them a moment, his cheeks glowing pink, his elfish smile wide and happy and then decided not to disturb them and leave the bed a twisted mess. By the time I got home they'd all relocated to other hot spots (the window sills, the rocking chair in The Jungle Room where we store all the stuff that still needs going through, on the red blanket draped across the back of the couch). And the bed, which had been the picture of serenity and "cuddliness" in the morning, looked like a herd of buffalo had stampeded across it.

He's such a sucker.

But I do love how much he loves them.

*Photo taken from Google Images


NodakJack said...

When did this "making the bed" compulsion begin? Hmmm?

Greg said...

hA's nice to see someone else's parents aren't afraid to make smart-ass comments on their blog!

I do try to straighten up the comforter a bit most is nicer to walk into later, but sometimes I am thwarted by a sleeping kitty...and he *is* just too adorable to disturb.

I can however, sleep for days with the cat lounging on my feet...though its gone badly for him on occasions with charley horse cramps, flung through the air like from a CAT a pult.

There's something vaguely opiate about the way he snuggles against me when I'm trying to read...I always wake up with the magazine or book on my chest, and one of his paws stretched across me.

Face it, the housework doesn't stand a chance.

Cheryl said...

I know why you have to mke the bed each day. Maybe I should tell. Nah!