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A Life Measured in Laundry Loads
All three of my little guys are sound asleep. My youngest, a 2-year-old, is cozy in his bed, with a noise machine softly playing ocean waves. Meanwhile, my 5-year-old is tucked in his own room, nestled in the arms of his dad, who has also drifted off. The light is still glowing, illuminating a book resting on his stomach, rising and falling with the rhythm of his snores.
The house is finally quiet. Time to tackle another load of laundry.
I grab the laundry basket and dump its contents onto my bed. It’s quite the sight: a small mountain of dress shirts and slacks, women’s tops and comfy pants, along with an assortment of little boys’ shorts, tees, socks, undies, and sports bras. This will take at least twenty minutes. I take a sip from my glass of white wine on the nightstand before diving into this never-ending chore.
As I search for the matching bottoms to a pair of 5T superhero pajamas, I can’t help but calculate how many hours I’ve spent sorting, washing, folding, and putting away laundry. I was lucky to have a mom who did my laundry until I left for college. So, I take my current age and subtract 18, which gives me my laundry years. I estimate that I do about five loads each week. Taking a quick break from matching socks, I pull out my phone and do some quick math: 5 loads a week times 52 weeks equals 260 loads a year. Multiplying that by my laundry years results in a staggering 4,425 total loads.
Setting my phone aside, I take another sip of wine. That translates to roughly 30 minutes per load, totaling 132,750 minutes, or around 2,213 hours of my still-young life.
So many loads to go.
I hang a youth-sized T-ball jersey, lightly stained. Memories of college flood back, remembering the days I could carry two full laundry bags back to my mom. As I fold a pair of size 8 capris, I’m reminded of the time a decade ago when I was folding size 16 jeans during a rough patch in my marriage. A smile creeps onto my face as I think about hanging size 10 skirts when I was divorced, living solo, and truly loving life.
I gather my comfortable, brightly colored underwear into a pile, opting to toss them into a drawer instead of folding them neatly. I used to hand wash fancy lingerie when I was engaged again. Now I’m hanging my husband’s work pants, recalling the suits I used to hang fresh from the cleaners when I remarried, enjoying my career with no kids yet. Before I knew it, I was folding maternity clothes, my wardrobe expanding along with my waistline, those sleek suits packed away for a while.
Nine months later, my laundry basket overflowed with burp cloths, crib sheets, and onesies, while my own closet dwindled to just a pair of yoga pants, a worn nursing bra, and old T-shirts. I remember the moment I decided sorting by color was pointless and just dumped everything into the washing machine. I still chuckle at the time I found a diaper in the wash, resulting in a messy cleanup of gel-like goo on every piece of clothing, regretting my decision to overfill the washer.
I smirk at the times I’ve refused to wash my husband’s clothes because they were left in a pile next to an empty laundry basket. As I stack a pile of 3T shorts, a stray newborn sock tumbles out. I hold it up, amazed at how it found its way there, reminding me of laundry days from two years ago, when I was back in maternity clothes again. I sigh upon finding a pair of 5T pants with a new knee tear, placing them beside a pile of Hulk and Spiderman underwear.
I ponder the day my boys might be embarrassed by me folding their boxers and what I may discover in their jeans pockets. I think about the things my laundry basket will never contain: pink frilly dresses, sparkly tops, and Disney Princess socks. It tugs at my heart a bit to think about what will be missing once the boys have grown and moved out.
I clutch my toddler’s little striped sock closer to my heart, close my eyes, and take a deep breath before searching for its match.
Twenty minutes later, the mountain of laundry on my bed is gone. I sit on the edge, finishing my glass of wine. Another load will be waiting for me tomorrow.
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In summary, laundry may seem like a mundane task, but it serves as a backdrop for countless memories and transitions throughout life. From early years to now, each load tells a story of growth, love, and the inevitable chaos of family life.