The Laundry Dance
You put your color load in.
You take your color load out.
You put your white load in,
and you agitate it around.
You do the laundry dance until all your dirty clothes are done and out.
Thatâs what itâs all about!
(Sung pretty horribly to the tune of “Hokey Pokey” if you couldnât already tell.)
I seriously feel like my life is one big dirty pile of clothing. It never ends. I believe itâs got Gremlins-like tendencies, that by my application of water to clean them, immediately they multiply. And I swear I donât feed them after midnight, but I think the leftover food on the clothes might be doing it for me. Crap!
Having children wear uniforms to school is toughâespecially the ‘khaki and white poloâ aspects of it. They want kids to wear light pants and white shirts? Are they serious? Do they not know kids get filthy?
Needless to say, having children in uniform means double the laundry. They take their “school clothes” off to come home and get into “regular clothes” so, by end of day, I have twice as many dirty clothes. For each kid. Remember, I have SIX kids. So, pardon my french, but thatâs an assload of laundry to do e-v-e-r-y day, let alone to have to chase after when it doesnât get brought down appropriately.
We finally tasked my oldest with bringing down the laundry each morning, figuring that she, of all the children, would be able to accurately make sure it all gets to where it needs to be. WRONG. She doesnât bother to bring down anything that isnât in the hall laundry-hamper. So, if my younger children strip their clothes off like snakeskin and shed it on the floor of the bathroom? Tough cookies! She leaves it. It isnât “her job” âher job is to bring down the laundry, not pick up after them, she says, in all her holier-than-though, teenager-y, Justin Bieber-worshipping almighty-ness.
Is there a such thing as Death By Laundry? If not, there will be. With my name all over that obituary.