This morning M looked at me splayed out on the couch with my laptop on my lap and said
He could have meant anything. Time for a shower, time for breakfast, time for me to get my butt off the couch and get moving. But the look on his face left no room for doubt.
“Noooooooooo.” I cried, but he was impassible.
“Today’s the day we fold all the laundry.” He said grimly, and I reluctantly put down the computer and followed him to
hell the bedroom.
Now, it’s no secret that we have a bit of a laundry problem around here. You do the math. Four people, two of which change size almost every month. I wash, and wash, and wash and I have no place to put the clean stuff and no time to fold it anyway so we never get around to putting it away. We just heap it on the chair and ottoman in our room and dig through it to find clean clothes.
We ignored the situation until there was almost as much clothing on the floor as on the chair. Then we realized we probably had to do something about the situation.
We started at 10:30 this morning. When we broke to feed the kids lunch we’d barely made a dent. By 3pm we were starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. A teeny tiny pinprick of light. We folded, and sorted, and folded, and sorted, and put tons of stuff away. M emptied the kids’ drawers and I filled them right back up. I hung up a million shirts and pairs of pants, and we packed our closet to the gills. (Not that closets have gills, so maybe we packed it to the hinges or something.)
Our bed is still covered in clothes that have yet to be folded and put away and our laundry hampers are overflowing.
Know what that means?
Yup. That means that as soon as I wash all the dirty clothes we’re right back where we started. And if that’s the case, then why, pray tell, why did I waste an ENTIRE Sunday folding laundry?