My husband and I have, what I believe to be, a pretty well-balanced approach to household chores. There are certain things that he always does (yard work, as an example), there are things that either […]
My husband and I have, what I believe to be, a pretty well-balanced approach to household chores. There are certain things that he always does (yard work, as an example), there are things that either one of us does (emptying and loading the dishwasher), and there are certain things that I always do (grocery shopping). This approach works for us. Sure, there are times when each of us feels like the other one is “doing nothing,” but when looked at objectively, we both do a pretty good job of pulling our own weight. It’s not a system that has any hard and fast boundaries—my husband has, over the course of our nine years of marriage, done the grocery shopping. Although I have never mowed the lawn … but never mind that.
Anyway. One of the chores that I always do is the laundry.
Do you know how much laundry a family of six creates? An infinite amount, that’s how much. It’s never ending. It goes on and on forever. And ever. And then a little longer after that.
As an aside, I will tell you that the boy child (he’s 5) refuses to wear underwear unless you explicitly remind him to do so. Last week as I was folding his week’s worth of laundry, I noticed that there was only one pair of undies among the what seemed like 19 pairs of pajamas. One pair of underwear. So … apparently we forgot to remind him to wear underwear a few times the prior week.
Anyway. The laundry. There is so much of it. Part of it is my fault because I don’t do a little bit each day. Instead, I let it pile up all week and then try to tackle it all on the weekend. I’m not saying this is a good idea. It’s not. In fact, it’s a bad idea. And yet, it’s what I do. Mostly because if I try to do it during the week, I wind up forgetting about it. It sits in the washing machine all week, and then is mildew-y, and then I have to wash it again. Then that makes me mad. So instead of doing that, I leave it all until the weekend and work like a madwoman trying to get it all done by Sunday.
It never works.
So this morning I thought I’d do a load of laundry. Look at me! Being proactive!
I picked up the pile of sweaters that have been collecting on the floor of the closet and threw them into the washing machine on the “hand wash” cycle. The “hand wash” cycle on the washing machine is probably my favorite invention because I do not believe in hand washing clothes with my actual hands, so I’m happy that there is finally a machine to do my hand washing for me. Up to this point my hand washables didn’t so much get washed.
Anyway. The sweaters went into the washing machine on the hand wash cycle. When they were finished I went to take them out and hang them on the drying rack. I reached my hand into the washing machine and what was the first thing I pulled out?
I washed a shoe. And not like a sneaker. An actual shoe. Like a dress shoe.
And at first I was like, “What the hell? Why is there a shoe in the washing machine?” But then I was just happy that it wasn’t the cat.