I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait for the kids to be in bed tonight so I can pop open my dryer, grab huge armfuls of warm, fragrant clothes, toss them into a huge pile on my bed, and get to folding. I live for laundry.
Yep. I’m going to fit an ear bud into my right ear, leave the other bud hanging so I can hear the baby monitor, plug into my phone, and queue up one of my favorite podcasts.
Then I’m going to grab an ice-cold Shock Top out of the fridge, twist off the cap, pour it into a tall glass, and drop an orange slice in there because I’m fancy like that.
Last but not least, I’ll flip on the TV, find a basketball game to watch, and start to go to town on that pile.
I’m going to dig in there with both hands. Grabbing and pulling towels, underwear, socks, shirts, scrubs, whatever. Because, while I live for laundry, I’m probably not all that good at it.
I understand the basics. I know that you dump whatever is in the hamper into the washing machine, put some detergent in, and start it up. Then you put the wet stuff in the dryer. Then you dump them on the bed and fold them like a damn warrior.
I know that you never mix whites and darks unless you want to because I understand laundry. On the other hand, when it comes to my kids, sometimes I feel like I don’t understand anything.
For example, how is it that whether we wake up two hours or fifteen minutes before time to leave for school we always leave at the same time: five minutes late?
Or why is it that my kids’ favorite hobby is slowly running their fingers through the black dirt that makes up most of our yard (I’m not much for yard work) and dispensing it all over their bodies? They do this all the time at every possible opportunity. All of them!
And what am I supposed to say to my 3-year-old when he refuses to put his shirt on because his “teacher told him not to” and he’s never been to school or had a teacher?
You guys, it’s so confusing! Sometimes I just stare at my kids and picture a giant pile of laundry.
“I know what to do with you,” I say.
Then I snap out of it and instead of a pile of laundry I find a shirtless kid eating a frozen waffle straight out of the freezer.
“I don’t know what to do with you,” I say.
So, I just wait until they’re all in bed. To pass the time or while someone is tantruming, I retreat to my happy place and fantasize about folding a fluffy towel into a neat square and placing it on the floor in the corner (where we keep them, obviously) or folding one of my shirts lengthwise and then rolling it up because I read somewhere like ten years ago that was the thing to do or, wait for it, pairing up socks! What a rush.
Yes, I’m coming for you laundry pile. You are all mine tonight.