All three of my boys are peacefully asleep. My 2-year-old is cozied up in bed, surrounded by the calming sounds of ocean waves from his noise machine. Meanwhile, my 5-year-old is nestled in his own room, curled up against his father’s arm, who is also lost to slumber, the light still glowing softly, a book resting on his stomach, rising and falling with each gentle snore.
With the house enveloped in tranquility, I take the opportunity to tackle another load of laundry.
I grab the basket and empty its contents onto my bed. A veritable mountain of men’s dress shirts, women’s tank tops, yoga pants, little boys’ shorts and tees, all mixed with a variety of socks, undies, and sports bras. I mentally estimate this task will take at least twenty minutes. I take a sip from the glass of white wine perched on my nightstand before diving into this unending chore.
As I search for the pair of bottoms that match a set of 5T Avengers pajamas, I can’t help but reflect on how many hours of my life have been devoted to sorting, washing, folding, hanging, and putting away laundry. Growing up, I was fortunate enough to have a mother who managed my laundry until I left for college, making my initiation into this world of domesticity at 18.
Calculating my current age minus 18 gives me my total years of laundry experience. I then consider the average weekly load count—five. I take a brief break from sock matching and whip out my phone, multiplying that number by 52. A final computation reveals I have completed approximately 4,425 loads of laundry in my lifetime.
Setting my phone down, I take another sip of wine. With each load taking roughly 30 minutes between washing and folding, that adds up to 132,750 minutes, or 2,213 hours of my relatively young life. So many more loads lie ahead.
I find a youth XS T-ball jersey, lightly stained, and hang it up. Memories of my college days flood back as I reminisce about the times I could haul two full laundry bags back home to my mom. As I fold a pair of size 8 capris, I can’t help but think back ten years to when I was folding size 16 jeans, trapped in an unhappy marriage. A small smile tugs at my lips as I recall hanging size 10 skirts after my divorce, relishing my newfound independence.
I gather my comfortable yet colorful underwear into a pile, opting to toss them into the drawer rather than fold them neatly. I used to hand wash delicate lingerie back when I was engaged again. Now, I pick up my husband’s work pants and hang them up, reflecting on the suits I used to hang fresh from the dry cleaners before kids entered the picture, when I was thriving in my career.
Suddenly, I was folding maternity wear, my closet shrinking as my body expanded. Nine months later, my laundry basket overflowed with burp cloths, crib sheets, and onesies, while my wardrobe dwindled to a couple of pairs of yoga pants, a worn nursing bra, and comfy T-shirts. I vividly remember the morning I decided sorting by color was pointless, stuffing everything into the washing machine instead. I also recall the frustration of discovering a diaper that had exploded in the wash and the arduous cleanup that followed.
Just then, as I start folding 3T shorts, a tiny newborn sock tumbles out. I hold it up, amazed at how it ended up there, evoking memories of laundry loads from years past, when my wardrobe was once again filled with maternity clothing. I sigh as I spot a pair of 5T pants, newly torn at the knee, and toss them beside a pile of superhero-themed underwear.
I wonder about the day my boys will be embarrassed by me folding their boxers or what I might discover in their jeans pockets. I also contemplate the absence of items that will never grace my laundry basket—pink, frilly dresses, sparkly tops, and Disney Princess socks. A pang of nostalgia hits me as I think about what my laundry basket will lack once the boys are grown and gone.
I clutch my toddler’s tiny striped sock closer to my heart, close my eyes, and take a deep breath before searching for its mate. Twenty minutes later, the mountain on my bed has vanished. I perch on the edge, finishing my glass of wine. Another load awaits me tomorrow.
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In summary, laundry serves as a backdrop to life’s journey, encapsulating the highs and lows of motherhood while also marking the passage of time. Each load tells a story of growth, change, and the bittersweet nature of parenting.
Keyphrase: Life Defined by Laundry Loads
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