The unmade bed

There's something really appealing to me about our unmade bed.

Craig got in the habit of making our bed every morning around the time we had our first house on the market. We had showings all the time, for nine months, and we did a good job keeping the house neat and clean that whole time. That habit got pretty deeply ingrained in both of us and, as a result, our house is mostly guest-ready at any time.

Every once in a while, however, the bed doesn't get made. That is most likely to happen when Craig gets up before I do. Like today.

I look at our bedroom and see the unmade bed and it makes me smile a little. The bed is rumpled, showing how, and where, each of us slept. It reminds me of the deep intimacy of sharing sleep. It reminds me of the other reasons we share a bed, too.

A few days ago, I called my dad to ask him to build a new headboard for our bed. I'm lucky to have a father who builds stuff and fixes stuff, and does it willingly and even happily. In the conversation we had, I asked him if he remembered what my bedroom looked like. He admitted that he didn't.

It makes sense, really. He's spent only a few days, total, in this house. I'm sure he can describe my kitchen, my living room, my dining room, the guest room, even my bathroom. But the master bedroom in his daughter's home? Not exactly the prime hanging-out spot.

What a change from childhood, from the teen years, even from early marriage. Until I moved into my second apartment (my first was a studio, so it didn't have a separate bedroom), my bedroom was my world. It was the only part of the house that I controlled (and, even then, I didn't have sole control; my parents had veto power). The posters on the wall, the arrangement of the furniture, the way I shelved my books on my bookcases, those were means of self-expression.

Now I have the luxury of imposing my taste on an entire house, the house we custom built. Our builder had an interior designer who worked with his clients, and she and I met several times to make sure the colors and finishes expressed our family's aesthetics and sensibilities as much as possible. She and I selected dramatic colors for the most public spaces of the house, the living room, dining room, and kitchen (my original choices were less-dramatic, but she suggested that the artwork we owned would be better displayed against a more intense background; she was right).

Our bedroom, on the other hand, is less playful. The colors are more muted. The textures are more sensuous. The artwork celebrates romance, the physical, our marriage. It's the most grown-up room I've ever had a role in designing.

Our designer's work was a success. Our house, now a home, expresses our family so well. The capriciousness of candy-pink in the living room. The drama of chocolate brown and hot pink in the kitchen, set off with pale wood floors and cabinets. The light, bright green and pink bedroom my daughter loves. My son's room, with retro fabrics and maps.

And that unmade bed, beckoning me today, telling me it's okay to take a day away from work and accomplishment.