reunited

Ever been away from your bed? How about for a month? To be perfectly dramatic, I've been in such a slump without my own bed, my covers, my chairs and furniture, my dishes, my silverware, pillows and lamps that I haven't been in the mood to blog. Or vlog. Or take baby pictures. Or do anything. For the first week, it was tolerable - the foreign, community furniture had a novelty to it that made it easy to overlook the grimy, invisible film that veiled the tattered apartment. But then it got super uncomfortable.

Movers at long last returned the contents of our house from the mysterious land of storage to us Monday when we moved into another (newer, prettier, happier) apartment. Now let's focus: I got my bed back.

You know that question, If your house was on fire and you could grab only one thing, what would you grab? I don't consider myself materialistic in the least, but I would disregard my 113 117 pound, weak, zero-muscled girlieness and heave my entire ultra plush, 300 pound, king sized, heavenly mattress onto my back (and probably fall over, into the fire and die).

But oh, how I love that bed.

My bed is so friggin' soft. It enveloped me and my husband for the years that we laid staring at the ceiling, questioning the perils of infertility that repeatedly and unexpectedly barraged us. It listened to us mulling over solutions and assuring each other back and forth that we'd be ok. It sat perfectly unmoving underneath me after I came home from having embryo Carter transferred.

When I come home from my long trips up and down the east coast, I don't race to the mailbox hoping for unusual pieces of mail. I don't hurry to the bathroom, even if my bladder's been screaming at me for the past five hours. I don't even greet my wailing cats. I steer my beeline straight up the stairs to plant my face in the cool covers of my reassuring, blissful bed and give him a hug.

In summary: I haven't been blogging because I've got a thing about my bed. All is well.