I was a fastidious kid. My room always tidy, underwear filed neatly in the drawer where it belonged. How it is that I have given birth to 2 slobs, I’ll never know. I blame it on Fiddledaddy’s gene pool.
Every Monday and Thursday, without fail, is laundry day in our home. I’m the chief laundry maven for several reasons.
- I have control issues.
- I consider my laundry skills a gift.
- And most importantly, the only way to turn the dryer on is with a wrench and a well placed kick.
Once I deposit a load into the washer basin, I often dare to enter the black hole also known as my daughters’ room in search of stray clothes desperately in need of wash.
In reality, at this point the clothes ought to be able to get up and walk to the laundry room on their own, but it is my pleasure to offer assistance.
The oldest daughter evidently has some sort of disorder which causes her to spontaneously throw her clothes to the floor when she finishes with them at the end of the day. Or if not the end of the day, when either her father or I get a load of her outfit and deem it inappropriate for a public appearance.
It is at this point wherein I must pause and profusely apologize to my parents for the tube tops, micro mini skirts, hip huggers that required staples to stay up, and of course the teenage attitude which accompanied my fashion choices in the 70’s.
Where was I? Oh yes. Foraging through my daughter’s room in search of digusting laundry. And I know what you’re thinking. LEAVE IT THERE. LET HER LIVE IN HER OWN FILTH.
Sadly she shares a 10×10 postage stamp sized room with a certain 10 year old who is not as much of a slob, and if the laundry is allowed to fester, the aura wafts into my area of the house.
Plus there are my control issues.
So today, not unlike nearly every Monday and Thursday, I pick up a pair of well worn sweat pants that I’m pretty sure she’s been wearing for the last two weeks and I’m even more certain that they have not made it into the laundry room.
And let it be known that my head has actually exploded when I notice that NONE of her underwear have graced the clothes hamper for the week.
A bit later I open the washing machine to transfer the load of darks into the dryer, only to discover a substance that looks like large flakes of snow ALL OVER THE CLEAN WET CLOTHES. And it shows up really well, because after all, this is the DARK load. I holler to everyone within earshot, “WHO LEFT STUFF IN THEIR POCKET?”
I realize that it could be worse, as at least it wasn’t dead frog pieces, or bug carnage. But still.
I hear Emme come clanking down the hall on her crutches, “OH NO, MOM!” She peers into the washer and spies her sweat pants, “MY BOOK!”
“Excuse me?” “MY BOOK! I WAS WRITING A BOOK AND I PUT THE PAGES IN MY PANTS POCKET!”
Okay. This is the child who is a prolific writer. She has notebooks upon notebooks filled with hand written chapter books.
“You wrote a book, tore out the pages, folded it up, AND PUT IT IN THE POCKET OF YOUR PANTS?”
At this point she begins crying. And I notice mascara running down her face.
“HEY. WHAT ARE YOU DOING WEARING MASCARA? YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO WEAR MAKEUP.”
She momentarily forgets that I’ve just ruined her writing career with the washing machine and begins back peddling regarding the whole makeup issue.
After some discussion, we have come to the understanding that she is to no longer leave clothing unattended on the floor of her room. Or wear my mascara. And if by chance I feel something needs to be laundered, I will first check the pockets.
Okay, who am I kidding. That last part sounded good. But really. As if.
But being the good and caring mother that I am, I did try to salvage the book in question.
It will take an awful lot of scotch tape, and will keep her awfully busy for the next year or so picking out the hair and lint, but I think it’s totally doable.
Have a great weekend!
The Laundry Maven