The laundry, HOLY CRAP the laundry.

I don’t understand how I can, with Herculean effort, get the piles down to scraps on a Friday, and by Tuesday have all the baskets full again. It seems as if the other people in this family must be changing clothes three times a day in order to generate this much. Even the twins contribute huge piles of little dressings. Maybe all four kids are genetically programmed to do what I caught Paul doing one day years ago: when he took out a shirt and it wasn’t the one he thought it was, he tossed it into the laundry basket rather than fold it back up and put it back in the drawer. (Can you imagine the discussion we had at our house about that? It was loud, and there was swearing.)

Some days I feel like such a drone, drudging away down in the basement with the washer and dryer running constantly. The same shirts and pants I saw last week, dirty again, washed again, folded again. Everyone else humming a little tune as they carelessly toss an item stained with spaghetti sauce into the basket to sit for a week until I discover it AFTER it’s gone through the dryer to permanently set the stain.

Also, who is this person discussing stain removal? Golly gee, what a MOM.