In bed.

In high school I had a wrought iron canopy bed with lavender bedding, and lavender and pink throw pillows.  My matching nightstand was filled with scribbled in journals, vases of dried dead flowers that teenage girls hang on until they eventually turn to liquid, and pretty smelling candles to hide the smell of pot. My walls were covered with Guess and Ralph Lauren ads ripped from magazines, and pictures of my friends and I after Musicals, on the bus to soccer games, and tipsy on Southern Comfort at bonfires.

My room was everything that a teen girl’s room was supposed to look like.

I could have slumber parties in there.

I could cry over break ups in there.

I could give hand jobs under the covers with the Verve Pipe playing in the background in there.

It pretty much met all my young adult needs.

College was the same.  My room was a perfect reflection of myself, only with more empty bottles of cheap liquor, condom wrappers, and OAR CDs.

When we got married, I favored registering for expensive pots and pans over bedding.

We’d figure our room out later, we had plenty of time, and besides, who sees it besides us?

Three kids later, our bedroom has all the charms of an episode of Cops.

The crazy episode, where they show up expecting to find a drunk guy, and end up walking into a meth lab and bathtub full of illegally bred African crocodiles.

Over the years, it’s become less eclectic and more prisoner of war chic, and I have no idea how we let it get this out of control.

I always assumed it’d be a temporary situation, that one day, we’d take the time to turn it into the love den we deserved, but, I mean, why put all that money into it when Henry kept chewing the knobs of the dresser, and the kids kept spilling juice, urine and vomit on the sheets, and my boobs kept leaking through the comforter, and the drawers were all sticky with spilled KY and stashed legos and Hot Wheels and Wii controllers and OMG SERIOUSLY.

How did we even make babies in that bed?

Oh right, we didn’t.

I’m pretty sure the boys came from the living room floor while watching Seinfeld, and Gigi was in the crawl space while our sheets were in the washer.  Again.

I have no idea how Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar keep making babies, because I only have three, and I’ve already run out of semi-clean surfaces to have sex on.

As it is, the last place Andy got his pee pee touched was on a couch that smelled like play dough during Jack’s Big Music Show.

We’ve traded in Barry White and Remy Shand for songs about saying you’re sorry and not biting your friends.

I need a bedroom.

A place where I can make-out with my husband or fake cramps and shut the door so I can recover from my woman issues alone with my Oreos and Say Yes To The Dress marathon.

The way God intended.  With matching 300ish count sheets and pillows without hard drool spots.

So, yesterday I bought matching bedding.

I won’t talk about how much it costs, because needless to say, I could have bought Madonna a lifetime supply of the dead orphan bones she is clearly eating to look the way she does at 50, but it was worth it.

It’s clean and it smells like linen, not spoiled milk or that rancid stuff that leaks out of the back end of Henry.

(Seriously, how is that even allowed, nature?!)

It’s the first thing we have done for ourselves in a really long time, and I felt immediately guilty after I did it.

Until this morning.  When I woke up without contracting a yeast infection or lock jaw.

Worth every cent.