In the stillness of the night, my three children lie peacefully asleep. My youngest, a lively two-year-old, is cozy in his bed, lulled by the gentle sounds of ocean waves emanating from his noise machine. Meanwhile, my five-year-old is nestled in his own room, curled up in the embrace of his father, who is also dozing off with a book resting on his abdomen, the soft glow of the lamp illuminating their slumber.
The house is enveloped in tranquility, signaling it’s time to tackle another round of laundry. I lift the basket overflowing with clothes and unceremoniously pour its contents onto my bed. Before me lies a chaotic assortment of men’s dress shirts, slacks, women’s yoga pants, and my boys’ vibrant tees and shorts, interspersed with a motley collection of socks and undergarments. I estimate I’ll need at least twenty minutes to sort through this mountain. Taking a moment to sip the white wine perched on my nightstand, I brace myself for the task at hand.
As I search for a matching bottom to a pair of 5T Transformers pajamas, I can’t help but reflect on the countless hours I’ve dedicated to sorting, washing, folding, and putting away laundry. I was fortunate to have a mother who handled my laundry until I left for college, so at the age of 18, I embarked on my own laundering journey. I calculate my current age, subtract 18, and realize just how many years of laundry I’ve endured. On average, I complete five loads a week, which leads me to a quick calculation: multiplying that by 52 weeks and then by my total laundry years gives me a staggering total of 4,425 loads throughout my life.
Setting my phone aside, I contemplate the time spent on this endless chore—approximately 132,750 minutes or 2,213 hours. So many loads still remain.
I hang a youth XS T-ball jersey, lightly stained, and reminisce about my college days when I could effortlessly carry two full laundry bags back to my mother. Folding a pair of size 8 capris, I’m reminded of the time I folded size 16 jeans while grappling with an unhappy marriage. A bittersweet smile crosses my face as I recall hanging size 10 skirts during my single days, embracing the freedom of life on my own.
As I create a pile of colorful but comfy underwear, I forgo folding them, opting instead to toss them into a drawer. In my previous engagement, I would meticulously hand wash delicate lingerie. Now, I begin to hang my husband’s work pants, recalling the days of arranging suits from the dry cleaner when I remarried, blissfully career-focused and without children. Then came the whirlwind of motherhood: my wardrobe swiftly transitioned into maternity wear, with my closet shrinking as my waistline expanded.
I remember the morning I decided that sorting laundry by color was a frivolous task, leading to the inevitable disaster of discovering a diaper in the wash and the laborious cleanup that followed. I chuckle at the times I’ve resisted washing my husband’s clothes simply because they lay abandoned next to an empty basket.
As I fold 3T shorts, a tiny sock tumbles out, evoking memories of laundry loads from two years ago when I again donned maternity pants and oversized tops. Sighing, I set down a pair of 5T pants, now ripped at the knee, beside a pile of superhero-themed underwear. I ponder the day my boys might feel embarrassed by my folding their boxers or the surprises I may find in their pockets.
I reflect on the absence of pink frilly dresses and sparkly tops in my laundry basket, feeling a pang of nostalgia for the elements that will be missing once my boys have grown and left home. Clutching my toddler’s little striped sock, I take a deep breath and search for its match.
Twenty minutes later, the once daunting mountain of laundry has vanished. I sit on the edge of the bed, finishing my glass of wine, knowing that tomorrow will bring another load.
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In conclusion, while laundry may seem like a mundane part of life, it serves as a poignant reminder of the moments and milestones that shape our lives as parents.