The first thing we do every single morning is make the bed. I think it's nice to greet the day with a small gesture of order. Except on Sundays. Sunday is don't-make-the-bed-day. It's a little, silly thing we do to pretend we're not quite grown-ups. And I think it'll be a nice Sunday tradition for Dash when he gets older and, you know, owns a bed and bedding and stuff.
Oh my God, though, I hate it so much. Walking into the bedroom on Sunday, I never fail to be jarred by the sight of pillows everywhere, the quilt rumpled at the foot of the bed. I honestly just try to stay out of there as much as I can.
The only exception to the Sunday rule is if we're expecting company. Anyone. My best friend, my mother, the babysitter. I don't discriminate. If you're not a resident and you're coming over, the bed will be made in your honor and I will silently thank you and enjoy your visit just a mite extra because you permitted me to make the bed on a Sunday.