I can’t believe I’m going to say this…
My husband started doing the laundry.
For the past 16 years, I have been in charge of washing, drying, folding and putting away the mountain of clothing, sheets and towels that our family creates. My husband once calculated, between our two dogs, how many piles of poo he had picked up; just so you know, it was about 12,000. I figure that I have turned, at least, that many socks right-side-out.
But, between work, blogging, cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, my kids’ extra-curricular activities and my over-use of commas, I have been falling behind. My husband could only go out and buy new underwear so many times before he stepped in and took it over.
Yesterday morning, he announced, “There’s a new sheriff in town” and he started sorting clothes.
His first job was to empty the washer of the jeans and sweatshirts which had been rotting in there for a few days. Holla! He took a whiff, deemed them fine, then threw them in the dryer. After which, I opened the dryer door, smelled a pair of my son’s pants, gagged and put them all back in the washing machine to be cleaned again.
So, the start wasn’t smooth, but by the sounds of his yelling at the kids, “I’m emptying your pockets this time, but I won’t be doing it again!” I think he’s getting the hang of it. So far, he’s only shrunk two pairs of my pants.
Sure, they look like capris now, but at least they’re clean.
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