Sunday is laundry day. If I don’t have a specific day set aside for this chore, it might never get done. I refrain from doing laundry during the week, because it’s better if someone else is here to distract the kids while I carefully fold and hang articles away.
It’s a nice thought, I suppose. One that is rarely seen to fruition thanks to a certain 3 year old.
He watches as I carry in a load of freshly cleaned clothes, scented with floral fabric softener. His face brightens as he anticipates what’s to come. Down his body falls on the mattress, legs dangling over the edge, his smile like a target. I hesitate, knowing the mess he’ll make. He looks so hopeful, though. I bury him in still warm material, his laughter contagious. From clean socks and underwear, he peeks out a thankful, happy eye.
Sure enough, he arises out of the pile with a burst: dress shirts in one corner, pants on the floor. It’s a game he can’t get enough of. The obsessive compulsive in me, envisioning smudges and wrinkles and even more work, is urging him to stop. But I resist.
Wrinkles are temporary.
In a former life, I was proud to have an ordered house. It’s safe to say, clean isn’t what it used to be. Drawers are overstuffed, crumbs magically multiply, toys are everywhere, laundry is never carefully folded. It’s a version that I’m still learning to accept, to enjoy. I’m not there yet, but it’s getting better.