Laundry and Life

I remember this one time I was helping my mom with the family laundry. I groused and complained over each step. "I don't like switching the loads between tubs," I declared (ours was a semi-automatic twin tub washing machine). "There are so many loads!" "You know what I hate most? Making sampay (hanging the clothes on the laundry line to dry)!" Finally, my mom just burst out laughing, bless her soul. After all, she could have grounded me for such a grumpy, whiny attitude.

Sundried laundry. Nothing smells as fresh. And look! No wrinkles!

I moved into my own apartment when I was 16. I just started college, and was totally on my own. My own rules, my own way, and uh-oh. My own laundry. I'm glad my mom trained me in my early years, so I could wear decently washed clothes to school (decently ironed is a different thing). I could even hand wash clothes in a pinch. But laundry was never my favorite thing to do. I would wait until I had almost nothing to wear before I'd throw a load in.

Then I discovered the laundromat that had a pickup and delivery service. By that time, I was working already, so I sort of could afford to pay for the convenience of it. Then when The Hubby and I got married, I did the laundry on another twin tub machine, but within a few months, the amazing AL took over and did our laundry until she finally retired a few months ago.  Then we went into panic mode, and I taught the kids how to do laundry. Now they pretty much can do laundry on their own, without having to consult me on the sorting of underwear and such.

The multitasking HP kids: Raine sorts and does this load of laundry while Breeze reads aloud to her.

One thing we don't do, however, is iron. That is beyond me. Now we have two baskets full of clothes that need ironing. I'll get 'round to it. Someday. The Hubby, at the start, was aghast at wearing un-ironed clothes. But now he has accepted the reality that if he wants to wear something totally wrinkle free, he'd have to iron it himself (and he did, a few times). Also, most of the clothes we wear these days are the not-so-wrinkly kind (most likely by process of elimination--the wrinkly ones are stuck in the basket). So he has resigned himself to the fact that the HPs are into that slightly hip, disheveled look. Or at least that's the look I hope we project.

To minimize the trauma to The Hubby's affronted sense of proper fashion, I try to shake and smooth the wrinkles out before I hang them out to dry. The girls don't have the arm power (or arm length) to shake the wrinkles out hard enough to my satisfaction, so lately I've been doing most of the hanging up. I let them hang up the whites load because 1. they need the practice; and 2. for some reason, our whites are mostly pajamas and ratty clothes we wear at home, so they don't need to be as wrinkle-free.

I think I've certainly matured and gone full-tita because I find myself enjoying laundry these days. I like the almost mindless motions of shaking and hanging and arranging. I love the smell of fresh laundry, wet and dry. I love seeing clothes lines loaded with clean clothes swaying in the breeze. And when I harvest the dry clothes, I love seeing the suddenly empty backyard. I love the slight drop in temperature as I walk through the lines of slightly damp laundry, and the wind blows through it. And I love the quiet and the time that I can get lost in my own thoughts. Laundry has become a respite of sorts.

Not to mention a decent workout.

I still don't like ironing though.


Of course Simon is a large part of laundry. Here he is guarding newly washed floor mats with his life--and his fur


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