All three of my boys are fast asleep. My 2-year-old, Noah, is cozily tucked in bed, a gentle ocean sound machine humming in the background. Meanwhile, my 5-year-old, Ethan, is peacefully snoozing in his own room, nestled under his father’s arm, who is also fast asleep. The light is still on, a book resting on his stomach, rising and falling softly with his snores.
The house is serene, and it’s time for me to tackle another load of laundry. I grab the basket and upend its contents onto my bed. A mountain of men’s dress shirts and slacks, women’s tanks and yoga pants, and little boys’ shorts and tees, all mixed with an assortment of socks, underwear, and sports bras, awaits my attention. I estimate this will take at least twenty minutes, so I sip from a glass of white wine resting 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 reflect on the hours I’ve spent sorting, washing, folding, and putting away laundry. My own mother did my laundry until I left for college, making me 18 when I first took on this daunting task.
Taking my current age and subtracting 18 gives me my total laundry years. I usually do about five loads a week. I pause from matching socks to pull out my phone and multiply that number by 52. A final calculation reveals I’ve done approximately 4,425 loads in my lifetime. Setting my phone down, I take another sip of wine. At about 30 minutes per load, that adds up to 132,750 minutes, or 2,213 hours of my relatively young life.
So many loads still lie ahead. I hang a youth-sized T-ball jersey, lightly stained, and reminisce about my college days, when I could carry two full laundry bags back home to my mom. Folding a pair of size 8 capris makes me think back to a decade ago when I was folding size 16 jeans during a time of marital unhappiness.
A small smile creeps onto my face as I recall hanging size 10 skirts during my single years, living alone and enjoying life. I gather my colorful yet comfy underwear into a pile, opting to toss them into a drawer instead of folding them. I remember the days when I hand-washed delicate lingerie while engaged.
Picking up my husband’s work pants, I hang them up while reminiscing about the suits I used to manage when I remarried, childless and thriving in my career. Then, I was suddenly folding maternity clothes as my wardrobe—and waistline—expanded, packing those freshly pressed suits away for a while.
Nine months later, the laundry basket overflowed with burp cloths, crib sheets, and onesies, while my own wardrobe shrank to consist mainly of yoga pants and worn-in T-shirts. I recall that one morning when I decided sorting by color was a waste of time and just crammed everything into the machine. I still chuckle at the frustration of discovering a diaper in the wash after it ran, and the labor of cleaning the mess off every piece of clothing—cursing my decision to fill the washer to the brim.
As I begin folding a pile of 3T shorts, a tiny newborn sock tumbles out. I hold it up, marveling at its presence and remembering the laundry loads from two years ago when I was back in maternity pants and oversized tops. I sigh as I find a pair of 5T pants, newly ripped at the knee, and set them aside next to a pile of superhero underwear.
I wonder about the day my boys will be embarrassed to have me fold their boxers and the embarrassment I may feel when I discover what’s inside their jeans pockets. I also think about what my laundry basket will never contain—pink frilly dresses, sparkly tops, or Disney Princess socks. A twinge of sadness strikes me at the thought of what will be missing once my boys have grown and moved out.
Holding my toddler son’s little striped sock close to my heart, I take a deep breath before I search for its missing match. Twenty minutes later, the mountain on my bed has vanished, and I sit on the edge, finishing my wine. Another load is waiting for me tomorrow.
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Summary
In a heartfelt reflection, a mother recounts the countless hours spent on laundry, drawing parallels between her life stages and the clothes that fill her basket. From memories of her carefree college days to the realities of motherhood, she finds joy amidst the chores while contemplating the future and what her laundry days will look like once her boys are grown.