A Life Measured in Laundry Loads

home insemination Kit

By: Emma Collins

Updated: Aug. 26, 2019

Originally Published: Aug. 14, 2015

All three of my little ones are peacefully asleep. My 2-year-old, Oliver, is nestled in his bed, with the gentle hum of his noise machine creating a calming ocean ambiance. Meanwhile, my 5-year-old, Max, is tucked into his father’s embrace, both of them dozing off with the light still aglow and a book resting on Dad’s chest, rising and falling with each snore.

The house is blissfully quiet. Time to tackle another load of laundry.

I grab the basket and dump its contents onto my bed. Ugh, what a sight! A sprawling collection of men’s dress shirts, women’s tank tops, little boy shorts, and a medley of socks, undies, and sports bras awaits me. This will take at least twenty minutes. I take a sip from my glass of white wine resting on my nightstand before diving into this never-ending chore.

As I hunt for the matching bottoms to a pair of 5T superhero pajamas, I can’t help but tally the countless hours I’ve dedicated to sorting, washing, folding, and putting away laundry. I was lucky to have a mom who did my laundry until I left for college, which meant I was 18 when I started this laundry journey.

I do some quick math: I take my current age and subtract 18, which gives me my total laundry years. Then, I multiply the average number of loads I do each week—five—by 52. A quick final calculation of my yearly loads multiplied by my laundry years gives me… drumroll, please…

4,425 lifetime loads.

I set my phone down and take another sip of wine. At about 30 minutes per load, that adds up to roughly 132,750 minutes, or 2,213 hours of my relatively young life spent on laundry. So many loads still ahead.

I hang up a youth XS T-ball jersey, lightly stained. Nostalgia washes over me as I think back to my college days, carrying home those two heavy laundry bags to Mom. As I fold a pair of size 8 capris, my mind drifts back a decade to when I was folding size 16 jeans during a tough marriage. A soft smile creeps onto my face as I remember hanging size 10 skirts when I was divorced, living alone and reveling in my freedom.

I toss my comfy underwear into a pile instead of folding them neatly. I used to hand wash lacey lingerie when I was engaged again. As I gather my husband’s work pants, I think back to hanging suits fresh from the cleaners before kids entered the picture. Soon enough, I was folding maternity clothes, my wardrobe expanding as my waistline did. Those crisp suits were packed away, forgotten for years.

Nine months later, my laundry basket overflowed with burp cloths, crib sheets, and onesies. My wardrobe shrank to a few pairs of yoga pants and a frumpy nursing bra. I remember the day I decided sorting by color was just too much work and crammed everything into the washer. I cringe at the memory of discovering a diaper in the wash, the chaos of cleaning up that gel-like mess from every piece of clothing—talk about a laundry disaster!

I chuckle at all the times I’ve refused to wash my husband’s clothes when they sat neglected next to a perfectly empty basket. As I fold some 3T shorts, a tiny newborn sock tumbles out, and I can’t help but marvel at how it ended up there. It takes me back to a couple of years ago when my wardrobe was again filled with maternity clothes.

I sigh when I find a pair of 5T pants, newly ripped at the knee, and I set them aside next to a pile of Hulk and Spiderman underwear. I wonder about the day my boys will be embarrassed to have me folding their boxers, or the awkwardness I might feel discovering what they leave in their pockets.

I think about what my laundry basket will never hold: pink frilly dresses, sparkly tops, or Disney Princess socks. A pang of sadness washes over me at the thought of my basket missing those items once the boys have grown and moved on. I clutch my toddler son’s little striped sock a bit closer, close my eyes, and take a deep breath before searching for its match.

Twenty minutes later, the laundry mountain on my bed has vanished. I plop down on the edge and finish my glass of wine. Another load will be waiting for me tomorrow.

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In summary, my life can be measured in laundry loads—each one a reflection of cherished moments, memories, and the passage of time as I navigate the joys and challenges of motherhood.