Laundry...Mi Vida Loca
Sometimes I feel like I’m in a relationship with my kid’s clothes.
This is as low as it gets people. Folding clothes at night in the middle of your favorite show, and feeling like you’re in a relationship with children’s clothing. The endless laundry that accompanies having kids can drag you to these depths.
As I fold them, I straighten each piece out. Putting them in piles.
Long sleeve shirts. Short sleeved.
Jeans. Tan and corduroy. Sweat pants.
Pajama tops and bottoms.
Underwear and socks.
Some were bought because of the great deal I got on them. Some were passed along to me. Some were impulse buys because their cuteness could not be passed up. But each one was chosen because I thought my kids would love them.
Just kidding. Besides that one superheroes shirt, they were solely chosen because I liked them. You will look like the Duke of England or a lumberjack or star athlete or hip urbanite depending on the day, because I have different looks I want to try out on you and you will be my guinea pig. Be thankful I don’t sew.
I’ve admired each piece. When I first saw it and from then on each time I drew it out of the hamper.
Each one has been inspected for stains and treated.
Some stains were too real life for me to actually deal with, like poop or blood, and I threw them away without hesitation. One time someone at church handed me a baggie with your poopie underwear in them because they thought I would want to salvage them. I thanked them and promptly threw them away.
I can see where some are wearing thin and how many times I’ve had to treat the knees on certain pairs of jeans for grass stains.
We are in an endless cycle, me and my children’s clothes.
Buying. Wearing. Inspecting. Treating. Washing. Drying. Folding. Putting them away. Picking out the next day’s outfit. Putting it on them.
And I care about them. Why else would I make my kids change their clothes before they go outside and play? Or yell at them to not scuff their shoes or drag their coat on the ground.
Correction: I care about money. Clothes cost money. Therefore, I care about your clothes.
This is also why you don’t care about them. You have no money.
When they are worn out or have been grown out of, I pass them on or take them to consignment or throw away the stained ones.
When I gift someone with my precious children’s clothes, I expect to see them worn and I delight in seeing them being passed on. I promise to stop myself from excitedly pointing out that your kid is wearing my kid’s clothes and telling you a story about that particular piece.
And sometimes, I save them. I pull out pieces that I think one day your child will wear this. I put them on the top shelf of their closet.
Oh, yeah, your child WILL be wearing this. I do not care how out of fashion it may be at that time way in the future, but YOU WILL get a J.C. Penny portrait of your kid in it. You will.
And sometimes, I reminisce about them. When they were a part of the day to day rotation. How cute they were. How little they were. And I miss them.
But this temporary moment of reflection is lifted when I think about the future and how you will be doing your own laundry and I won’t have to treat every.single.stain.
Or you won’t and you will just wear them anyways. And I won’t be able to stand it, so I’ll go back to treating your stains until you no longer live here.