My Laundry Runneth Over
At 288 loads of laundry a year, my laundry runneth over.
Sometimes I am overwhelmed. The piles. The constantness of it all. But when I look at the laundry in a different way, I am truly blessed.
The cyclical nature of laundry. The minute I think I’m “all caught up,” another day goes by and I’m not. We are living, breathing, clothes-wearing creatures. Doing what we do: working, playing, eating, being active, bathing, being alive.
Aren’t we so fortunate to be alive?
I have three healthy, growing children who are busy and athletic. I have a kind husband who wears a lot of shirts. I sweat a lot.
I am grateful we can clothe our family from head to toe. I am grateful for my powerhouse washer and dryer. I am grateful for the blue liquid detergent and the hot water that make all the stains and germs disappear.
My daughter says she likes the rattling sounds of zippers and buttons hitting the inside of the dryer. Plink. Zink. Plink. Zink. I love the smell of bleach. My grandmother’s hands always smelled like bleach.
The warmth of my dryer in my laundry room reminds me of the neighborhood laundromat where I spent Saturday nights as a child with my mother. We didn’t own our own washer and dryer until I was a teenager.
Back then, the laundromat was our Saturday night ritual. Our mother-and-daughter date night. We bought doughnuts next door while the week’s worth of clothes washed. The laundering process took hours and we usually had the whole laundromat to ourselves. My mother taught me how to sort laundry — whites, darks, lights, reds-pinks — and how to fold towels in perfect rectangles. Just like the Hilton.
The Maasai people of East Africa have a quote: “The more cattle a Maasai has, the richer he is.”
Instead of cattle, I have laundry. Mountains of laundry.
I am truly rich.