I won laundry once. It was glorious.
Gather my friends of the never-ending laundry for I will tell you the story of the impossible.
It was on a cool December morning when I once again chose my battleground against our common enemy. Pants with Thanksgiving gravy stains buttressed the phalanx of shirts, underwear, and mountains of toddler clothes. Many worn for less than an hour, they were fresh for the fight.
I was just coming off an entire week of my three children at home. Their only purpose? To create more laundry. It’s a vicious cycle that us survivors of the laundry wars know too well. One shirt turns into a shirt and pants. That then grows into socks and underwear. Eventually, it became an outfit that was only worn because Grandma wanted a cute picture.
Guided by the lessons from Sun Tzu’s Art of War, the battle commenced. I knew the enemy’s weakness. Tenacity. Dedication. Copious amounts of caffeine.
The first load almost did me in, my brothers and sisters. Whites and darks mixed; red socks hidden up a toddler’s pants leg. Laundry is devious but so are parents that just want to be done with it. For the love for all that is Holy, please, let us just be done!
I persevered and continued. Load after load, hour after hour, the battle continued. I deployed my laundry baskets at strategic choke points. One in front of each room of the house. When a load was dry, I folded and placed the defeated shirts in the basket that corresponded with the kid.
My wife’s laundry, so delicate and treacherous, continued the fight. Unable to be contained by a single laundry basket, the shirts launched a counter-offensive. Engineered to never be hung up on a hanger, I used duct tape to strengthen my resolve. My wife says that the hooks on hangers are for her shirts. Just loop the straps in. She lies. I fear that she has betrayed me to the enemy and my heart aches, but my resolve remains.
Soon, I realized that this was a battle of attrition. My supplies ran low. My stain sticks, applied like chalk on a chalkboard, refused to give any more as I turned their applicator. Laundry detergent and dryer sheets ran low. There would be no resupply. Mainly because all my pants were also in the wash, and it would have been uncouth to go out in my pajamas. I thought it was fine. But my wife said no. Once again, she aids the enemy.
But then I realized that it was more than just physical supplies that didn’t last. It was also my energy level. As I folded yet another toddler t-shirt, I realized that I was looking at nothing. I had gotten the thousand-yard stare and there was so much more to go. So, I stopped folding toddler clothes. “What did it matter?” I asked myself. The toddlers don’t care if their clothes are folded. I actually think it offends them. When I tell them to get dressed, they just throw it on the floor anyway. So, I stopped all folding and just sorted it into baskets. And when those baskets were full, I dumped them into unmarked drawers.
I could see the light. I had rallied, but as is often with battles such as these, I was mistaken. I looked at a load of clothes on the floor. I was sure that I had washed these the day before. Positive, actually. Did someone just throw them back in the dirty laundry pile rather than put them away?
Yes. Yes, they did.
So, I washed them again because it was my last load. The last. Help me, sweet mother, my last load.
And then, like a miracle, it was done. All of it was done. Every piece washed, folded (or not), and put away. And just like that, I knew that I had won.
Heed my words, fellow veterans. Laundry can be finished, I tell you! I can be done! As you fight your own battles, know that you are not alone. We are there with you in spirit. Have faith, build your courage, and don’t think about tomorrow. Ever. Because tomorrow it all begins again.