Many times I find their clothes under their beds, along with a nice cross-section of my towels. Towels,
it appears, have a life of their own in which they rise during the middle of the night and belly crawl under beds. Sort of like the shoemaker's elves, only instead of doing something constructive, they hide. I don't
know why. You'd think they'd like being washed every three days. I have dozens of towels – or at least I once did. Now my linen closet – once neat with crispy folded linens and towels – looks like the 10-cent
item bin at a rummage sale.
Things are folded. Sort of. There are sheets and pillowcases crammed on to shelves in such a way that if you open the door, they all fall down, landing in a heap on the floor. There
are old curtains and tablecloths and beach towels and lots of useless stuff I should have thrown away years ago, but haven't. The reason? No time. I spend all my spare minutes prone, trying to reach stuff under my kids'
beds.
And the socks and underwear under their dressers and nightstands. Mustn't leave those out. I tried to explain to my offspring that the "under" part of underwear doesn't mean they should put them under
furniture, but the concept eludes them. Oh well. Can't expect perfection all the time, can we?
Each morning, after my family departs for school, I go on a dirty laundry safari, seeking out soiled items. I find
socks stuffed behind the ash container on the fireplace. I find towels trailing from their bedrooms all the way to the den. And then there's the stuff that slips from the hangers and falls on the floor of their closets,
which they then cram into the hamper, even though those items are already clean.
Yep. Lots of clothes need to be washed in this house. I do so many loads that a heavy duty washer and dryer have lives that are
much too short. But I don't mind, really I don't.
No – I don't mind crawling around on the floor searching for dirty socks. I don't mind having to pull them out of the pair of jeans my child was wearing when he
or she pulled them off.
I don't mind that the pants – and the socks – are wrong-side out. And I don't mind having to turn those pants and socks right-side out. Nope. I don't mind the washer and dryer going all
the time. Don't mind a bit.
And, no, I haven't taken leave of my senses. I haven't turned the corner and barreled straight into dementia. I haven't come unglued. Laundry is my hobby. My life. My obsession. Why?
Because I like the smell of freshly laundered clothes. Because I get a real sense of satisfaction when I carry piles of neatly folded laundry into my children's rooms. Because doing laundry makes me feel like a
good mom and wife. It validates me. It satisfies some deep inner need.
And besides, they forget to take the money out of their pants pockets when they take them off.
