I am writing to you from beneath a pile of laundry the size (and smell) of a large landfill.
I was attempting to heft a metric ton of dirty kid clothes into the washer when I slipped on a stray sock, lost my balance, and caused an avalanche. I can’t feel my legs, and my six-year-old’s baseball pants have slid dangerously near my face, but I’ve managed to free my hands to type out this SOS.
I’m normally pretty good at staying on top of the laundry.
With the clothing of five kids plus a husband to manage (not to mention my own uniform of old jeans and Gator t-shirts), it really must be a daily affair. Recently, my father-in-law popped in and found me on the living room floor in the midst of my folding ritual. Sort, fold, stack, repeat. My kids can tell you that interrupting Mommy during folding time is unwise. Still worse, knocking over one of my clean laundry stacks will earn you a one-way ticket to the backyard. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out! Even the dog knows to steer clear. But in saunters my beloved father-in-law who starts poking around my piles. Being a kind and benevolent daughter-in-law, I stifled my urge to attack.
For context, my father-in-law is a wonderful man. I really do love him.
But sometimes, I am utterly baffled by him. As one might imagine, my father-in-law is aware of the existence of my five children. Being their grandfather, he knows each of them on sight and by name. It’s very impressive. He even has four sons of his own who were, presumably, prodigious generators of grimy laundry once upon a time. And yet, he asks me, in all sincerity, “Is today laundry day?” The incredulous look on my face must have spoken volumes.
Laundry day? What the hell is laundry day?
Had I ever lived a life so gloriously devoid of filth that all my laundry needs could be accomplished in a single day? Surely not. Luxuries like Laundry Day must be reserved for single people, or retirees, or the Queen of England. Not mothers of small children. I smiled at his innocence.
“Every day is laundry day in this house, Poppy.” He found this revelation hilarious, God love him.
But during the three weeks of winter break, there was no possibility of cranking out the required daily wash load. Between hiding Christmas presents, baking cookies, slinging that damn elf around the house, and, of course, the seasonal plague, I let the laundry slide.
And slide it did…an epic landslide of chocolate-stained, sand-laden, skid-marked debris, from under which I currently write.
My voice is hoarse from shouting for the children, but they can’t hear me over the sound of their own playtime. They’re probably busy stuffing mud in their pockets or wiping boogers on their shirts. I really shouldn’t interrupt them. If this message somehow makes it to the outside world, please send help. I know my fellow moms will understand and rush to assist me. Just don’t send my father-in-law. Seeing me prone, he might misconstrue my predicament, think I’m just having a little nap (as we moms so often do), and tiptoe thoughtfully away.
