Laundry

I’d rather do laundry than cook.  Any day of the week.  Maybe I’m still reeling from the honeymoon of having my own washer and dryer in my house.  I used to get a knot in my stomach watching my mom sort the laundry on Monday and Thursday nights in preparation for the next morning.  She would soak all the white washcloths in Biz on the kitchen counter in a small bucket.  She’d spray my dad’s shirt collars and any stains with Spray n’ Wash while we watched Little House on the Prairie and The Cosby Show .

Tuesday and Friday mornings she’d get up around 5 and head down the apartment stairs, in front of the building and around the corner about half a block to the Laundromat on the corner.  I hated that she went alone.  But I also I hated it when my dad would go with her because then we’d  be alone.  The whole thing made me nervous.  Eventually when I was about 11 or 12 I started going with her.  I helped her carry down the baskets.  I’d watch her wipe out all the washing machines to make sure they were clean from the debris left before and from other people’s germs.  Then she’d open her little coin purse and put in quarters and Tide.  We’d go upstairs for a bit to start getting ready for the day.  Then we’d go down to put in the fabric softener.  Her timing was right on, and we got there just in time for the light to switch telling us it was time to add the softener.  Back upstairs to wait for the cycle to finish.  Then we’d go down and transfer everything to the dryers.  One morning she found a homeless man sleeping in a dryer.  I could never really decide if it was better or worse if other people were there or if we were the only ones.  The mornings were pretty dark at first, so I guess that was the scary part.  That, and our neighborhood as a whole was just scary.  Anyway, the drying part was interesting because she let a lot of things just dry for a minute or two before shaking them out and hanging them up on those carts with the basket and hanging rack in one.  Then we’d go upstairs and wait for the rest of the clothes to dry before finishing up one last time.  I guess we were done by about 7; we left for the day around 7:30 a.m., so again—her timing was just right.

Sometime later she would go on Tuesday and Saturday mornings to a nicer one down the street.  Maybe our gross corner one was closed; I honestly don’t know.  But she’d bring us home a box of doughnuts once in awhile on a Saturday morning, the fluffy bathroom rugs would sit on top of the baskets, and we would have towels warm from the dryer.  At some point I did laundry on Friday nights at another Laundromat with my dad and sisters.  He would buy us Jack-in-the-Box for dinner and I’d take over the laundry because my mom worked late at the bank.  Then as I became old enough to drive I took it all to the one down the street.  Eventually we got a set of two washers and two dryers in a little maintenance room downstairs by the mailboxes.  Happy day!  I was still a little nervous to do it during the day when no one was home though, but out of all the scenarios this was still the best.

Even better was in college when we had a laundry area in the basement of the dorms.  Heavenly!  I felt safe.  I could do it whenever I felt like it.  I discovered off-peak times.  It was glorious.  I think I was one of a handful of girls who brought my own flannel sheets to college.  The others traded theirs in on Saturday mornings.  Hailing from Southern California, I depended on the extra warmth the flannel provided and felt the quarters spent to wash them were well-spent.  Laundry in these circumstances was a cinch.

I moved off-campus as a sophomore.  The complex did have a room for laundry next to the pool, but it was more expensive than the alternative just through a hole in the fence and across an abandoned lot.  This place was gross.  So nasty.  The floor was falling apart, the walls barely worked, it was ugly, old, and smelly (but cheap), and made you wonder about its history.  How it came to be and why it still was.  But it must’ve been worth the trek.  We were kind of funny as sophomores.  Every Saturday we piled everyone’s clothes together and a couple of us would do laundry while a couple of us went shopping for the food.  (We also ate together every night—each roommate had a different day to cook; we shared Sundays.)  I preferred laundry, hands down.  The next year we did our own cooking and laundry.  I remember everyone hanging up wet shirts and wet jeans all over the apartment.  I’m not sure if that was to conserve quarters or because we were trying to maintain the quality of our clothes.  Kind of weird.

Eventually I got married and our apartment was perfect.  Absolutely perfect.  But no laundry options.  Which was totally fine.  Something I was certainly used to.  So I’d drop Todd off at work at 7 on Saturday mornings and go across the street from the vet clinic to do the laundry.  Other times we’d go together.  Once we had a load stolen from the dryer.  The hardest part of all this was the two weeks after I’d given birth to baby Andrew.  My aunt and uncle lived in town and were so generous and amazing.  She would come and swoop up our laundry and deliver it fresh and folded.  She was simply an angel.  Our new baby was scrawny and wet through all his clothes and sheets several times a night.  I had piles of sheets and blankets and little newborn nightgowns that always needed to be washed.

Once we moved into student housing in Illinois I’d continue to go really early on Saturday mornings or sometimes during the week when Todd was at school, but it was easier to leave our baby at home.  The great thing about Laundromats is getting everything done for the week in about an hour and a half.  So nice!

But everything changed about a year later.  We moved across town to a town home and for the first time in my entire life I had a washer and dryer in my home.  I was ecstatic.  No one before or since has been this excited to do laundry.  Except maybe my mom who had also lived for 21 years without a washer and dryer in her home.  I couldn’t believe how convenient it was to throw in some dirty clothes at home.  It hummed as I worked in the kitchen.  I didn’t have to load up the car in all kinds of weather, make sure I had enough quarters and that I remembered the soap and dryer sheets.  It was all right there.  So close.  So convenient.  I was in my glory.  Any mom knows the heavy load laundry is in a house.  We also used cloth diapers for the first 2.5 kids, so it was gloriously simple to just carry the pail downstairs.  I don’t think I’ve taken my washer and dryer for granted since.  I love, love, love having them right in my own house.  Love it!

Of course they’ve broken down over the years.  Nothing piles up faster than dirty dishes or laundry, so even after 3-4 days it gets to be a bit much with a family of seven.  I remember a friend letting me spend some time with her doing several loads at her house.  It was heavenly to take home fresh clothes.  Another time we’d gone camping and came home to a broken washing machine.  You know how much laundry camping makes.  And how stinky it is.  I remember our dryer being broken for several days, but thankfully it was summer so I draped all sorts of sheets and shorts over our porch railings.  It looked funny, but hardly anyone passes by on our street, so I didn’t care.

I’ve always wanted an old-fashioned clothes line outside.  I used to hang things on our old porch all the time.  I still do hang things up wet.  Just like my mom did.  Only she did it to make the clothes stay nicer longer.  I just want to save energy.  Not many of my clothes are fancy enough to worry about.  I love having a long rod in my laundry room just for this kind of thing when it’s too cold to hang them outside.  What a luxury!

I’m also a little different in that I purposefully planned our laundry room to be downstairs instead of conveniently by the kitchen.  I wanted to force myself to take a few extra steps.  Plus I’d rather have a big pantry upstairs.  I feel like a rich, rich woman because I have an entire room devoted to laundry.  It’s tiny, but it has its own special plastic sink even.  I am so lucky.

I remember how funny it was when we got our first front-loader when we moved into this house six years ago.  We have a cistern and pay about $130 a month for water, so I’m very, very conservative with it.  That and hailing from California where you could only water on odd or even days.  So with water costs in mind, we bought a more efficient front-loader.  I know this was around Halloween because my older boys grabbed their candy and blankets and propped themselves in front of it to watch the show.  I still kind of laugh thinking about how simple our entertainment needs are.  I’ve done laundry at several friends’ houses over the years, and sometimes I feel like I’m programming a space shuttle.  So many buttons and lights and decisions and sounds even.  These new washers can sense how much is in a load, how dirty the clothes are, and how heavy the fabrics are.  Amazing, simply amazing to me because ours (like everything in our life) is the basic version with few bells and buttons.  I asked one of our many repair guys what kind he’d recommend.  An old-fashioned top-loader, he said.  Cleans the best.

So while I’m enamored with my set-up—having a washer and dryer in my house, providing me a little extra exercise to boot—it’s not all about having a special room and sink and the convenience of being able to wash clothes at home.  It’s more than all that.  I love collecting dirty towels, pulling sheets from beds, and carrying that top-heavy basket down stairs and sorting all the clothes from the past several days.  I don’t know why it makes me happy to see Todd’s white church shirt, but it does.  I also like seeing his muddy pair of jeans from working in the yard on Saturday.  I’m happy to see so many place mats or an over-sized tablecloth from company on Sunday.  I like the mix we sometimes get in a couple days here in Montana.  I can have sweaters and shorts, jeans and short-sleeves in the same basket because the weather is so fickle.  It’s a week-in-review when I do the laundry.

I miss all the tiny socks.  The little undershirts.  The cute pajama suits with a zipper up the front, the miniature sweatpants.  I never thought I’d get out from under my piles of laundry.  But now I just have small loads, and I find myself searching for anything extra I can throw in to round out the batch, maybe an extra towel or two, someone’s coat, a blanket from the couch that needs to be freshened up.

Several years ago a woman mentioned that laundry was one of her favorite household tasks, and it made me ask myself how I felt about it.  Ever since then I’ve realized that I do really like it.  I love the satisfaction of a tightly made bed, fresh cool sheets turned down.  I like the smell of a clean bathroom topped off with fluffy towels straight from the dryer.  I feel blessed to see that we have enough sweatshirts and coats and gloves and jeans for all our family members.  I love piles of kitchen towels ready to put away.  I’m fine to match socks (Todd hates it) and every few months I grab all the singlets for a huge version of the sock-matching game, even going through all the kids’ drawers to make sure we have all the players.

I love taking a pile of dirty dog blankets and watching them transform to fluffy, cleaner versions of their former selves.  I like taking stinky dish cloths that have stiffly sat too long and seeing them come out white and bleached and ready for work again.  I think because it reminds me of us and how we can easily, easily become clean again.  I see how we become fresh again after a mistake in the mud or a blunder with a buddy.  All it takes is a capful of detergent, a bit of sorrow, a request for forgiveness, a little time, some warmth in the dryer. I love the freshness a load of clean laundry emanates, just as I relish the light, new feeling of a clean and changed heart.   I guess that’s part of the reason why this is just such a gratifying part of my life as a mom.  That, and I’m still excited about having my very own set downstairs.