On Laundry...

To most, laundry is simply a mundane chore, a necessary evil — and for those of us with children a mind-boggling lesson in futility. But somewhere along the line I realized that my darks, lights, and delicates have also served as a metaphor for my life. And no matter what stage of my existence I happen to be, those inevitable piles of dirty laundry are lurking in the corner telling my story.

When I was young, laundry was like magic: you put the dirty clothes in and they came out clean, folded and ready for another day. When I got to high school, the family’s weekly laundry suddenly became one of my chores. My protests were quieted by the sneaky, yet persuasive explanation that I was in training for my soon-to-be college independence. As I was learning to sort the clothes according to color, water temperature and appropriate settings, I was also learning to sort through the trials and tribulations of puberty, my first heartbreak, and the social pitfalls of growing up. I was in laundry Boot Camp and my life was a veritable minefield.

In college and my early career, doing laundry was a tutorial on self-reliance and the sweet allure of harnessing the ability to control my own destiny. It was a symbol that I was responsible for every stain, every article of clothing I washed and every new item of clothing I had to buy to make-up for the pile I put off that week. And I loved every minute.

In my late twenties, I was rounding up my first year of marriage. What I I’d heard is that your still shiny husband and you will be eating the well-preserved top of your wedding cake, toasting with champagne, and relishing the thought of another year as “one. “ Well, after a year in the freezer, the cake top tastes a little like cold dirt and quite frankly we ended up celebrating the fact that we had actually survived 365 days under the same roof. As we co-mingled our laundry, we co-mingled our lives and both got exponentially more complicated. My laundry piles were bigger, the stains were tough and unfamiliar and marriage was one giant adjustment.

Flash forward to today, nearly thirteen years and two kids later. Our master bedroom has a lovely little sitting room that as we were considering the purchase, sent me into a dazzling reverie of long, luxurious hours whittled away reading my favorite books and meditating on life as I gazed at the passing seasons. RRRRrrrrrrrr. (Sound effect: Record being scratched to the end of the album). Reality check. I do spend hours there, it’s just sorting, folding and ironing the unrelenting piles of our family laundry. These days, my laundry is like a self-replenishing water bowl for the dog. And yes, in this scenario, I am the dog. I frantically spend my time attempting to get to the bottom of the bowl, but it always looks the same.

Like my laundry, my life has become about problem solving — particularly when it comes to deciphering what team of stain removers I’ll need for the Sydney Pollack masterpiece Cameron has reproduced for me that day – or how to remove the deep-set chocolate oil stain on one of Jack’s shorts when I’ve failed to do a thorough search of his pockets. And let’s not forget the cast-offs of my husband’s pick of the lunch menu. (Thank God for Zout!) In my dreams, my problem solving skills at this stage of my life would have gone to much better use managing my house staff at my equally impressive Italian villa. Instead, I spend my days figuring out what to do with the booger that Jack has just handed me on the way up to receive Communion. But what are ya going to do?

These days my laundry is exhausting, soul-sucking, messy, impossible to manage and a daily lesson in learning how to let go. My life is, well, all of the above, and yet somehow I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

The lines of my life and laundry have blurred so much, in fact, that one needs only to see what my kids are wearing to determine how far my grasp has slipped down the pole of sanity. The more off track my life becomes, the less laundry that gets done and that’s when the special occasion outfits get dragged out of the closet. Incidentally, if you ever see us at Chick-fil-A and Jack’s wearing his ring bearer tux while Cameron “works” his most recent Easter outfit…someone please call my Mommy.