I am tired of washing you. I’m tired of walking up and down the stairs with you to my dungeon of a laundry room. I am disheartened (and truthfully, a little maniacal) when I have just washed a hamper of you, and the next time I walk into a kid’s room, you have filled the hamper up again. To the brim. (In all fairness, it’s with the clothes that have been stuffed under the bed by my kids, in an attempt to “clean” their rooms, but still.) This happens… a lot.
I know I am still trying to play catch-up from my most recent bout with the super-virus, but even when I’m on top of things, it still seems like ALL I do is laundry. Washing, drying, folding, putting away… it’s exhausting. And I’m tired. Of you, of the basement, and just tired in general.
Can’t you give a girl a break every now and then? I’d really love it if you’d just “do” yourself for the next few weeks. Catch yourself up and then be sure to jump into the hamper, rather than on the floor. And when I pull the full hamper out of the bedrooms to sort you, pleasepleaseplease make sure that you are IN it. Not under the bed, not hidden in the sheets, not under the table, in the downstairs family room, or in any of the other 1,000 places you seem to hide, thanks to my lazy children. Or on the cedar chest, where my husband tends to lay you, even though the hampers are less than a foot away.
I KNOW you don’t want to be washed by my kids. (Neither of us want that. As convenient- and practical- as that would seem, I don’t trust them to refrain from dyeing all their clothes pink. Or black. And I don’t even want to think of the gum, rocks, chapstick and other things that could go through the washer and dryer if they were in charge of cleaning out their pockets.) I would hate for things to turn out that way.
Thanks for giving me this chance to vent. (Get it? Vent? Dryer?)
This post has been brought to you by the letter P (pigsty) and by the number 13 (loads left to finish).