Ode to a Lame Old Bedspread

I never make the bed.

It strikes me as a very pointless, stupid thing to do — like all household chores. And while I continue to clean the bathrooms and kitchen and mop, because dysentery, there is no potential health threat to not making a bed. So yesterday was a pretty momentous day: I partially made the bed when I swapped out the comforter cover. Why would I do such a thing?

Well, because of this cute, little thing shown here looking all snuggly on our old duvet cover.


I had to lobby super hard for that polka dot action many years ago because Marty Stewart (aka my husband), who unlike others of his kind, actually cares about and has very specific opinions on home furnishings was not at all sold on the dots. Somehow, I won. And ta da! Except see that sweet beast? Yeah, she chewed the hell out of it. She is a very, very bad girl. Just moments ago I pulled away a roll of toilet paper, and that stuff is a very important commodity in our household.

The last thing I wanted to do was pick out another duvet cover because, unlike shoe shopping, that is the worst, super boringest way to spend money. It took so long to find Dottie — and I actually liked that one, unlike our previous bedspreads. I bought the last ho-hum, blue, striped Eddie Bauer Home number because I was so tired of looking. Luckily I kept it, tucked away in the back of the linen closet.

Interestingly, the kids, when they were younger, treated that comforter much the same way the dog does — they loved to wrap themselves up in it. Although, as far as I could tell, they never gnawed it. Definitely deposited some drool and snot, though.


It made me misty to see that old thing. Or maybe it was just the weird smell from being smushed in the back of the closet for so long that made my eyes water.


They really loved romping on our bed. I remember No. 1, laying on her tum and dressed in a yellow onesie with a monkey on it, popping her little head over the wadded-up comforter to play peek-a-boo with me while I was getting ready for work. They’d roll themselves up in it like human burritos or pounce onto it like kittens.

Of course, there was one tragic incident when No. 3 couldn’t resist the fluffy mountain that had pooled on the floor after the comforter was kicked off in the middle of the night. He started running and then leaped into the squishiness — and smacked right into the wooden bed frame. He ended up with a shiner.


Last night I called him over to look at the cover.

“Do you remember that?” I asked, pointing to the bed.

“Oh hey, that’s the Blackeye Bedspread!”

He remembered. He named it. Maybe I’m not in such a rush to find a replacement.

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