Mothers often joke about laundry.
I didn’t “get it” at first.
“It’s laundry. You spend a day every few weeks doing it, and you’re done. No big deal.”
Even when my son was born, laundry was only a minor nuisance.
Then Lil Diva appeared on the scene, complete with her Power of Regurgitation Reflux and suddenly I understood, like finally seeing one of those evil hidden 3-D images.
Laundry replicates exponentially, faster than a pack of bunnies.
First it’s just a tiny shirt.
Then it’s several pairs of pants the diaper leaked all over.
Suddenly, all adult shirts are at risk, as your three month old loves to burp and spit up over everyone. And herself.
Solid foods are added to the mix. Carrots. Blueberries.
The barf spots now have the power to dye your clothing.
So they are designated to the “Stained Clothing Bin.”
Where they sit.
Because the Lil Diva is now mobile and her big brother knocks her over/down at every possible chance – a 30 second bathroom break always ending in her cries, her brother swooping in.
I can’t eat or pee, much less do laundry.
And it breeds some more.
Then two baskets are required to hold the stained clothing; I have to pack it down to get it all to fit.
Lil Diva has a growth spurt, and all clothing outgrown is placed at the bottom.
Where it will rest…. and replicate…. for eighteen months – collecting more outgrown and heavily stained items.
I wish I was joking.
It reaches Ludicrous Laundry Level: All four bins are bursting with dirty clothes. All the time.
I have nowhere to put the laundry I am washing.
Father’s Day Weekend arrives.
I want my bedroom back.
I gather articles of clothing from all corners of the house. I enlist CG’s aid in watching the kids so I can work uninterrupted.
He gives me a look, like I’d rather do laundry than hang out with my family.
I’m may be burned out, but I’m not sadistic.
I sort, scrub, wash, dry, and fold.
Saturday ends with four loads of laundry washed, and four overflowing baskets sorted. It looks something like this:
Sunday dawns and I realize I cannot stop.
If I do, my children will charge in, mess up all the sorting, and undo my hard work. It will be another three months before I have the energy to tackle the project again.
I must persevere.
But I have at least twelve loads of laundry. It would take days.
I venture to my first laundromat.
I soak clothes. I scrub. I scrub. I scrub some more.
I use stain remover in the machines to test its merit.
It’s about 75% effective on the baby outfits, without spotting the clothes.
I rejoice, figuring finally I will be able to use the laptop I’d brought hours ago.
The laptop isn’t cracked once during the 5.5 hours I stood at the laundromat.
Scrubbing the more stubborn stains.
Peaking at the hundreds of kid tops to see if the stains were eradicated in the wash cycle.
Yeah, that took FOREVER.
I melt as I walk to my car, the 100+ heat slamming into me, my stomach starving because I missed lunch.
Sixteen loads completed.
About twelve normal sized loads of laundry, on top of five done at home.
My short lived joy at being “done” evaporates, as I discover a new hell:
I spend another five hours just folding and hanging clothes (until the hangers run out).
But I’m done.
My laundry IS DONE.
Minus the clothes we wore Sunday.
It is not the Father’s Day I’d planned. Or wanted.
My back is killing me. My knees are sore. My feet hurt from standing on the concrete floor.
BUT MY LAUNDRY IS DONE!
The question is, how quickly will the next batch breed?
Do you have your own version of laundry wars?