To say I hated doing laundry is an understatement. In 21 years of marriage, I’ve only been caught up once. I had been feverishly running up and down the basement steps for two days, loading and unloading the mountains of clothing, towels and sheets that had accumulated over a busy weekend. I transferred a load from the washer to the dryer, and then turned to pick up the next load. In astonishment, I stood gaping at the stack of empty baskets. I shook my head in disbelief, and mentally went through each room in the house, trying to remember if I’d left a basket sitting somewhere. It occurred to me that, with everything else caught up, I could start on the curtains and throw rugs.
I had almost two full minutes to revel in the knowledge that there were no dirty towels or clothes in the entire house. Suddenly, I heard a crash and, “Moooom! I dropped the pitcher of Kool-Aid and it spilled all over me!” I headed out of the basement with clean towels for mopping up the mess.
Last year, when we decided to remodel the kitchen, which led to remodeling the bathroom, which led to remodeling the living room, dining room and office, I managed to carve out a small area for laundry. We gave away the 16-year-old, rent-to-own washer and dryer with a warning that there could be frogs and spiders hiding within, and I picked out a shiny new front-load set. The family gathered around, and we watched with fascination as clothing and soap bubbles sloshed back and forth in the window. One day, I walked in and found son (who is now 18) and one of his buddies watching the spin cycle. Maybe, someday, he’ll be a husband who’s not afraid to do the laundry. But if he is, I’ll help him out by secretly doing it for him whenever his wife is in the hospital.
Ginger is an author, speaker and mother of five. Contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org.