In the stillness of the evening, three of my boys are nestled in their beds. My 2-year-old, Oliver, is peacefully resting with the gentle sounds of ocean waves lulling him to sleep. Meanwhile, my 5-year-old, Ethan, is tucked safely in his room, curled up in his father’s embrace, both obliviously lost in slumber. The soft glow of the light illuminates my husband, Mark, who is also asleep, a book resting on his stomach, rising and falling rhythmically with his snores.
The house is enveloped in tranquility, signaling the perfect moment to tackle another load of laundry.
I lift the basket and dump its contents onto my bed. Looking at the chaos, it resembles a mountain range made up of men’s dress shirts and slacks, women’s yoga pants and tanks, along with a medley of shorts and tees for the little ones, all mixed with an assortment of socks, underwear, and sports bras. I estimate this task will take at least twenty minutes. Taking a moment, I sip from my glass of white wine, conveniently placed on my nightstand, before diving into the seemingly endless chore.
As I hunt for the matching bottoms to a pair of 5T superhero pajamas, I can’t help but contemplate the hours of my life I’ve dedicated to sorting, washing, folding, hanging, and putting away laundry. I was lucky enough to have a mother who handled my laundry until I left for college, marking the beginning of my own laundry journey at age 18.
Calculating my current age minus 18 gives me my total laundry years. I consider that I do an average of five loads weekly. Taking a brief break from matching socks, I grab my phone and multiply that weekly number by 52, and then further multiply the yearly total by my laundry years—resulting in an astounding 4,425 lifetime loads.
Setting my phone down, I take another sip of wine. With each load taking approximately 30 minutes to wash and fold, that adds up to about 132,750 minutes, or 2,213 hours of my relatively young life spent on this repetitive task. The thought of so many more loads ahead is daunting.
I hang a youth T-ball jersey, lightly stained, and my mind drifts back to my college days, reminiscing about carrying two full laundry bags home to my mother. As I fold a pair of size 8 capris, memories flash back to ten years ago when I was folding size 16 jeans during a challenging marriage. A small smile appears as I recall hanging size 10 skirts post-divorce, reveling in my independence.
I gather my colorful but comfortable underwear into a pile, opting for a quick toss into the drawer instead of folding. I remember the days of hand-washing delicate lingerie while engaged. Now, I find my husband’s work pants and hang them up, recalling the suits I would hang from the cleaners when I first remarried, enjoying a flourishing career without children. Shortly after, I was folding maternity clothes as my wardrobe expanded and those crisp suits were stored away.
Fast forward nine months, and my laundry basket overflowed with burp cloths, crib sheets, and onesies, while my clothing options dwindled to a pair of yoga pants, a worn nursing bra, and old T-shirts. I remember the time when I decided sorting by color was pointless and started cramming everything into the wash. The frustration of discovering a diaper in the machine post-wash and the ensuing clean-up is etched in my memory, reminding me of the chaos that comes with parenting.
Folding 3T shorts, I find a stray newborn sock and contemplate how it ended up there, bringing back memories from two years ago when my wardrobe once again consisted of maternity wear. I sigh at the sight of a pair of 5T pants, newly ripped at the knee, and set them down beside a pile of superhero underwear. It dawns on me that one day, my boys may feel embarrassed having me fold their boxers, just as I might feel awkward discovering their treasures in the pockets of their jeans.
I also reflect on what my laundry basket will never contain: pink, frilly dresses, sparkly tops, or Disney Princess socks. The thought of missing these items after the boys grow up brings a twinge of sadness as I clutch my toddler’s tiny striped sock closer, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath before searching for its match.
Twenty minutes later, the mountain of laundry on my bed has vanished. I sit on the edge, finishing the last of my wine. Another load awaits tomorrow.
For more insights on topics related to parenting and home insemination, check out our other blog posts, including this one on privacy policies. Additionally, for those exploring home insemination, you can find valuable resources at Make a Mom and Johns Hopkins Fertility Center.
In summary, the act of doing laundry serves as a poignant reminder of the passage of time—each load a chapter of life filled with memories, challenges, and growth as a parent.