I’ve long given up on trying to figure out how three people, one being a child, are able to produce so much laundry.
It’s like the song that never ends. One load in; one out, almost daily.
Separating. Folding. Putting away. Over and over again.
As I stood at the white machine this morning, removing clothes one by one from the hamper to place them in for their weekly washing, I remembered to be grateful for the tasks that do not end.
For one day, they will.
One day, little people will grow up. And taking their laundry with them, there will be less clothing in the wash than there was before. I’ll long for the days of grass-stained denim and sweaty Little League shirts and chocolate ice cream with chocolate syrup dripped across faded shirts that are worn over and over again despite a drawer full of new ones because of how loved that one shirt is.
I think about those that are single and how, perhaps, they dream as they do their laundry to one day have another to do such a meaningful task for. For in the dreariness of redundancy, there is beauty in serving others.
In just a few short months, I’ll add to my load–both literally and figuratively–with spit-up onesies and other let’s not mention it right now types of stains and I know there are women out there longing to see these things in their machines. For their never-ending cycles are far worse than mine–each month to want the one thing they are not getting.
There are many other “never-endings” in my life, but I want to be the woman who relishes in the goodness and security that they provide than to grow bitter that they do not cease.
And so I put one more load in. The hamper stays empty for all of twelve seconds before the socks I told him to make sure weren’t left on the floor finally get picked up and put in their proper destination. Right after the load is done.
Yes, the security of those white socks always await me.
And I am happy.
I am blessed.