More than a Bed – it’s Sex, Sorrow, Sleep, and Snuggles

My bed is upstairs. Broken. Which breaks me a little. Feels stupid and first-world, but that’s where I am.

Angry because the people that moved it broke the footboard that never should’ve been disassembled in the first place.

This bed’s moved nine times now, and nobody’s ever taken it apart so completely.

The guy who was set to assemble it once it arrived?
“See here, Ma’m? They didn’t even loosen the screws.”

I know it’s just a bed. It’s just a bed. It’s just a bed, right?

Except a bed is never just a bed.

A bed is comfort.

It’s privacy and a family gathering place on a lazy morning and the place we read stories and play silly made-up games like Tucker’s and my “dog and person.” The dog is a hand with the thumb sticking out as a tail. Person is two fingers, petting dog and throwing it treats.

As he ages, Tucker thinks it’s funny when dog is naughty and pees on person. Or farts. This game would be too silly and pointless to play anywhere else but in bed. There though, it’s where five years ago and today merge into a carried on game. Nobody sees, except us.

Bed is where we burrow in sorrow. There, tears come and then fly, winged and released to dance in later dreams.

Bed is passion and privacy, and a place of snuggles and a family cuddled together for giggles and conversations that never seem to happen anywhere else.

It’s where we become brave enough to ask questions that nowhere else can hold safely. Like when I told Robert we shouldn’t continue on unless he was open to having a baby.

It’s Always More than a Bed – it’s Sex, Sorrow, Sleep, and Snuggles…

A bed is movies and giggles and blocking out the sun with pillow nests. It’s five more minutes of dreams.

Mine’s sometimes left unmade for days. Unless company’s coming.

It’s where I breastfed Tucker when he was in a bassinet a few feet away and it was easier to bring him to bed; lie half sleep while he fed.

It’s the bed I saw in a store 20 years ago that no longer exists. I visited it over and over. “I want that bed,” I said.
People told me it was impractical. “You’ll want a wooden bed when you’re older,” they said.

Except, I don’t. I want this bed.

Brushed stainless steel, maybe not-so-grownup, except I’m a grownup.

We’re not sleeping in it until it’s fixed. The movers left the headboard against the wall, and I’m afraid if any of us sleep there, the headboard will fall and break us. Break the love I have of this bed.

***

This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post. This week, my co-host Kenya Johnson of Sporadically Yours and I are hosting a five-minute stream-of-consciousness with the prompt “My bed.”

PS (after the five minutes) – a company is coming out tomorrow to look at welding the broken footboard of my bed and assembling it for us. Although we haven’t yet heard from the US Government about fixing the damage they caused with this move, we have enough other broken stuff to claim, and based on how this whole move went, I’m not holding my breath. I really just want my bed fixed. Oh, and then you can bet I’ll go after damages for the other stuff they broke. 😉 Grrrrrr….