It’s been such a nice holiday weekend chocked-full of sunshine, relaxing, summer barbecue-esque cuisine, paired with giggles from free-from-school children frolicking in reckless summer abandon, with parents enjoying their time (semi) sleeping in. (The babies are up in the mornings, just not as early.)
But despite the fun we’ve had, I’ve ignored the laundry for four days.
Consider it like dog years in my household, where for every load of laundry in a normal-sized family’s household, multiply that by, like, twelve for our family of eight. So, in dog-laundry years, I have 2389472342342 loads to do. Crap!
Mount Washmore has teeth. Fangs, even. And it wants to eat me.
“Babe, I don’t want to do the laundry.” I whined to my husband, pouting my lip in hopes he’d take pity on me and throw in a load for me. (Bad mother, I could be teaching my kids to whine, or something..)
“Why not?” He wasn’t biting. Damn.
“Because I don’t want to go in there.” {Insert more whining and pouty lip here}
I mean, really, did he even need to ask why? The laundry’s been sitting for so long, I was simply afraid of what Gremlin-esque shit might’ve sprouted in my absence.
“Well, I didn’t want to do the dishes earlier, but I did them, didn’t I?”
Touché, dammit. Tou-fricken-ché.
“Alright, I’m going. But if I’m not back in a half-hour, bring a large, stabby knife in to rescue me. And some chocolate.”
“Uh huh…” he mumbled as he dismissed my plea, returning his full attention to his Xbox 360 game.
As I begin my descent into Laundry Room of Doom™, I call upstairs to my son to bring their laundry basket down. Thumpity, thump, thump! I heard as he smacked every wall on the way down, bringing me practically every piece of clothing my children own.
(I kid, they have more than four days worth of clothing each. I hope.)
“Here!” He proclaimed as he ran straight back upstairs to the TV, leaving me to retrieve the wayward stuff that fell out everywhere.
“Uh, thanks..”
It’s a wonder they had anything to wear at all when I looked at this overfilled basket! Especially all the clean freakin’ clothes I spotted that also made it into the laundry pile (WHY, for the love of whatever you consider holy, WHY DO KIDS DO THAT!?!)
While I continued sorting, my kindergartner called down to me in sing-song fashion, “Mooooooooom! I don’t have any pajamas!”
Gee, son. Ya think? “Wear a t-shirt and shorts to bed.”
“I don’t have any of those eee-verrrr (either)!” Whiny McWhinesAlot responded.
{Grumble}
“Uh. Wear some of your brothers!” I’m a genius.
“But… his butt’s too big! And mine’s too small!” (When did he get so whiny?)
“Give me a bit, I’ll have something for you soon.” I try to pacify him, to save my ears from further whining. I mean, where does he get it from, anyway?
“But I’m tiiiiired!” He whined. Again. {Smacks head}
Thanks for the guilt trip, kid.
(By the way, was it wrong to duct tape his brother’s shorts on him before bed? Crap.)
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