In recent weeks, it’s been pointed out to me that I’m a stickler for how beds are made, with even the harshest of words used to describe my obsession that I’m a little “anal” about my search for perfection. I learned very young from my beloved and exhausted mother of six children, all within the span of eight years, that there is only one way to truly call a bed made and that is when everything is fitting tightly and sheets are tucked in the appropriate places. Specifically, this requires every layer of bedding smoothly situated and straightened with corners skillfully tucked and folded into what are known as hospital corners with no wrinkles evident anywhere. With this obsession for perfectly made beds, it’s no wonder that the only days our beds were made in our household of eight were the days the sheets were washed and we closed our eyes on the lovely smells of Dash detergent. Who has time for this kind of perfection?
Well, you would think that with this inherited compulsion for a bed made so deftly that I would have made it a priority to pass this skill onto my children when they were growing up all those years ago. Unfortunately, I think my need for a perfectly made bed overrode the merits of passing this lost art onto my sons. Instead, and without thinking forward, I made all the beds each morning as I continue to do for my husband and me. But, in hindsight, I now wish I did it differently.
You see, even though my sons slipped into a nicely made bed each night they were growing up, I now see it didn’t really matter that much to them as it did to me. If it did, they would insist on making sure they continued to get into the same well-made bed now as adults and neither of them cares too much about it. And, I’m not really even sure why it meant so much to me other than that it is engrained in me as the only way to call a bed properly made. But looking back now, I see that my need for perfection replaced providing an opportunity for my children to learn something important…the art of making a bed. Actually, and more importantly, I passed up the opportunity for them to learn something about me, their mother, and my story about the obsession I have with a perfectly made bed.
Sharing our stories always provides us the opportunity to stand more strongly in our truth and to allow others to know us more intimately. Our stories also have the potential to become lessons for others who might need to hear them at the specific time and place they hear them. Standing in our truth and sharing our stories are two of the bravest and most courageous acts we can perform with the greatest potential for growth, for both ourselves and others. Just like the instructions for making a proper bed.