Ah, the age old battle with the pile of laundry. It's a nightmare. It's never finished and I swear it lurks around at night breeding when I'm not looking. I am thankful for my washing machine though because it means that I don't have to hike down to the crick* and find two rocks with which to wash our clothes. The nearest crick in these parts is a pretty good distance away from here and I know as soon as I find a rock, let alone two, I'm probably going to drop it on my foot due to the sheer talent it would take to balance our laundry while carrying two rocks and wading in a crick full of freezing cold water while my feet are numb.
If I had to do that, my family would be the one everyone in the neighborhood would be talking about. You know who they are; the "dirty" people, the one's who must have well water because their whites are dingy. In fact, they don't even have whites, they have grays. When my Mom moved to town I remember her saying, "I never knew my whites were so yellow." I was twenty years old then, so I never paid much attention to my whites or yellows as long as they weren't in the red pile. At least I knew that much. Who knew that well water turned your clothes yellow? Who cared? I doubt it worried too many people unless you were the “country kid” with well water wearing dingy whites, standing next to the "town kid" wearing pristine whites because they had "town water" filled with chemicals to keep their clothes white and probably their intestines too.
Anyway, when I had kids I quickly realized there was no way to keep up with the laundry. It was a losing battle. Under the mantra of "One Day at a Time", I just made sure everyone had clean clothes for the next day, clean beds and towels. After that, if I got some wash done, it was a bonus. If stuff actually got into their dresser drawers it was like getting an extra 20 points on your trig test in high school! Somehow, I felt like I had passed some unwritten test given only to females when I was ahead of the laundry. Sadly, I am usually in the remedial female class. I can't decorate or sew, I don't understand the intricacies of shopping (groceries or clothes), I don't understand make-up or waxing eyebrows and I usually stick my finger through the stupid nylons when I have to wear them. Please feel free to feel sorry for Mike.
The irony of this poem that I wrote a few years ago, is two-fold: I was actually caught up on the laundry when I wrote it and it seems kind of funny that I had time to write a poem about not getting the laundry done, instead of actually doing the laundry. That probably offers great insight into the way I operate.
“Ode To My Dirty Laundry”
I looked around and all I could see
was the pile of laundry looming over me.
Scattered across the bathroom floor,
if I went into the bedrooms I knew I’d find more.
Towering high above my head
“How can this be?” I silently said.
It was just yesterday when I washed the whites,
folded them promptly and tucked them in tight
in each child’s dresser.
But how can this be?
For now I’m behind in the towels and jeans!
For each load that I finish
two more seem to appear
When I head into the bathroom, the piles silently jeer.
So off I go to sort and to load
if I don’t do some now, the bathroom will explode.
Stuffed to its walls with dirt galore
so what if I catch up?
It somehow breeds more.
It’s a losing battle but in my court is the ball.
I’ll load the wash in the washer and strike back with All,
then soften with Downy
and serve the laundry the ball.
I know I’ll get caught up as I always do
and when that happens I’ll be relieved anew.
But I won’t feel guilty about your dirty, silent jeers
because I have children to read to and they are so dear!
Laundry, you may grow larger and silently mock
But for now you will wait
for I have kids I must rock.
T. Bent
09/01/2004
Dedicated to Richard (age 7), Kate (age 5), Corinne (age 4) and Bethany (age 3)
*Yes, I know the proper term is "creek", but it is much more fun to use the word "crick".
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