Laundry is a constant process when you have two little boys. There are days when the buzz of the dryer is the metronome by which my day is measured.
Gather. Sort. Wash. Dry. Fold. Wash. Dry. Fold. Wash. Dry. Fold. So on and so forth.
It’s almost enough to drive you nuts, or keep you endlessly busy — I’m not sure which.
It isn’t the loading or shifting from wash to dry that gets me. It’s the folding and putting away. So tedious, yet so necessary. It’s sort of like encasing valuables just to pull them out less than a week later. Actually, it’s exactly like that. Clothes are valuable. If they weren’t, would we take such care to clean them, over and over and over?
To me, the most deflating thought is that there is no finish line. No trophy for a job well done unless you like more piles of dirty clothing. And it isn’t so much a trophy, as it is the entry fee in the next tournament because there really is no laundry end-game. There will never be a laundry championship because the laundry regular season NEVER ends.
It’s just a self-perpetuating cycle.
Gather. Sort. Wash. Dry. Fold. Wash. Dry. Fold. Wash. Dry. Fold. Put away (sometimes properly).
It never ends. It’s my laundry quandry.