I’m a 35-year-old mother of three and I cannot change a bed.
Last week, I needed to change my bed. The husband was away. He usually does this job because I can’t. I do not know why I can’t. I don’t think I have particularly short arms. I have never noticed that my arms are short when clothes shopping nor have my possible short arms stopped me doing anything. I think my spatial awareness is fine too. I can parallel park, I just, cannot put on a duvet cover.
Do you know how long it took me to change the bed? 55 minutes. 55 long sweaty frustrating minutes.
- Do you know how many times I got caught in the duvet cover? 5 times.
- Do you know how many places in which my armed ached by the end? 17.
- Do you how many pillowcases I managed to put on back to front? Two or 50% of them.
- Do you know what happened when I had finally finished making the bed? The sheet popped off one of the end corners.
This made me cry. For 25 minutes. My inability to change a bed alone became a symbol for all the things I manage to fail at in life. I lay on my badly half made bed and sobbed.
I cried because of the bed and because I can’t make roast dinners even though I detest roast dinners and because despite being of reasonable intelligence I cannot work out some system for my laundry and because I have turned into a person who texts their husband when is on another continent because I cant’t find the remote control. Then I cried because I am bringing up my children in a world where despite being good at lots of things I still felt like a failure because of the stupid bed. Then I thought burning some bras or something might make me feel better but realised I couldn’t burn a bra because I only have two that fit me because my boobs are so big and sore and then I cried again and then just as I was gearing up to proper hysterics and composing a lengthy text to the husband ( who was on the other side of the world, fortunately , for him) about how I was drowning in a sea of mediocrity, it passed. I fixed the corner of the sheet and the bed was ok and somewhat comfortable that night.
The fact that I am approaching my 7th month of pregnancy may just may have also have been a contributory factor in this meltdown.
I fucking hate making the bed though.