Laundry around these parts is constant and relentless. And truth be told, I don't really mind doing it. I kind of like folding...and I'm pretty good at it. BUT...I can't stand putting it away. Can't stand it. Getting Steve's and my clothes put away isn't so bad and I can't really let it pile up. Our master bedroom is on the first floor and I prefer it not look like a hot mess ALL the time. Our walk-in-closet is less than five paces from the washer and dryer...and I'm not that lame.
But the kids clothes is another ball of wax. It's always folded immediately, stacked neatly in individual piles (sometimes I really go nuts and stack clothes by like items...jeans with jeans, sweatshirts with sweatshirts, undies with undies...well, you get it). My neat little piles then go the love seat in the family room, because I've usually convinced myself that I'm ready to turn over a new leaf and will get all those little piles right upstairs...today...once the next load is done and folded.
The next morning (be quiet), I typically move the piles back to the dryer...this time to the top. I find they're much easier to ignore once the laundry doors are shut. When I can no longer balance another item of clothing on my delicate fabric tower, I finally take it upstairs...to rest on the spare bed for another day or two.
And this is exactly where my two precious daughters decided to park their carcasses this morning to watch Captain Sparrow play video games. With nary a care in the world, the two of them frolicked (I can only assume) among the lavender scented big girl panties and carefully folded blouses and trousers (I'm just kidding...t-shirts and jeans).
A few hours later, when I blew my stack at the jumble of clothes on and around the bed, both gave me that vacant, what-the-fuck-is-she-screaming-about look...and lied to me.
Their punishment, in case you're wondering, was to march to their room, sit quietly on their beds and watch me refold all the clothes and put them away. I know I should have made them fold everything again, but my OCD would have kicked into warp speed and things might have gotten bloody.
Lady Liberty stoically reclined on her bed, pretending to ignore me and my stupid clothes. Miss Thatcher, on the other hand, lost her shit. She writhed on her bed in a grand mal seizure of protest, screaming at me and trying everything possible to get out of her punishment (my God...punishment in my house is lying on your bed and watching your mother work?! I have GOT to rethink this parenting approach).
As is usually the case with her, I tried not to rise to the challenge. I tried to speak calmly, rationally and firmly. And every time she opened her yap, I stopped folding, making it clear that SHE was the one extending their punishment.
And still she shrieked...until finally I shrieked back.
"MISS THATCHER. I DON'T THINK YOU UNDERSTAND ME. THE LONGER YOU CRY, THE LONGER I'M GOING TO TAKE TO PUT THESE AWAY!"
....."the longer I'm going to take to put these away".....
"GET BACK ON YOUR BED BEFORE I REALLY LOSE MY EVER LOVIN' MIND"
....."before I really lose my ever lovin' mind"....
"LADY LIBERTY, I DO NOT THINK THIS IS FUNNY..."
.....i do not think this is funny.....
And that's when I noticed what Lady Liberty was playing with. Courtesy of Gramma and Grampa. A monkey...that records your voice and plays it back at the touch of a button. Let me rephrase that. It records your mother and your twin sister coming apart at the seams, while you nestle between the sheets, suffering through your cruel and unusual punishment.
"FORTHELOVEOFGODANDEVERYTHINGHOLY, GIVE ME THE DAMN MONKEY!"
.....for the love of God.....