Tag Archives: laundry

My Fault…

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I thought I could go back to bed and lie there for a bit without incident. So, technically, I suppose it was my fault. But I heard everyone helping each other get breakfast. It sounded peaceable.

So, forty glorious minutes later I walk out. The weather’s perfect. It’s sunny. Even the introvert in me is charmed.

“Let’s go to the park,” I say, “Shoes on.”

At this moment in the hallway the little guy passes me holding a spoonful of milky cereal in front of his belly and marching into his bedroom. Curious, I follow him. Then I watch as he stops, calculates, throws said cereal onto the carpet, touches one foot on top of it delicately as if to evaluate his success and turns, I’m assuming, in order to get more.

Well, I stop that nonsense and on the way to the kitchen with the spoon I notice several other arrangements of cereal on the floor and realize this is an installation piece, probably entitled “Scourge of My Mother”. There is also one very wet towel lying in a square on the floor.

“Hey guys? What’s with the wet towel? Did he have an accident?”

“No, Mom, he spilled a cup of milk,” said the eldest.

“He did it on purpose. And it was my milk,” said the girl.

Mixed media.

(There are many moments like this when I’m glad I don’t have a nice place. I can’t stand how my kids treat my two-bedroom rental. What on earth would I do if they treated my dream-house this way?!)

I proceed into the kitchen. And the baby has tried to make a smoothie.

Here is a picture of that baby:

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I sigh and scrap my plans for the park. I place the baby in the tub (the only place he will remain contained) and wipe counters, do dishes, unload dishwasher so I can load dishes, start laundry from last night’s pee debacle(another long story), scrub and baking soda a square of carpet, sweep the kitchen, vacuum and four hours later it’s nap time and I’m sucking down coffee and eating some Go Diego Go cereal. For some subliminal reason I wanted some.

The first baby, that’s not anyone’s fault. You’re naive; you’ve never had a baby. You don’t know. The second one, well, that’s not technically your fault either. You and your husband have seven siblings between you. Let’s blame family culture. But three, well- the third one’s on you. You asked for three. This is on you.

More Friends…

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So, I was at the laundromat doing practically every article of clothing our family of five owns. It needed to be done, yes; however, I was also planning on using it as an unassailable blind to have some mommy time and watch that new movie that came to Netflix that my husband would never ever watch with me in a hundred years. (Dramas maybe, romantic comedies maybe, romantic dramas… never!)

I had the first three loads up on the counter, my iPad was open, and my earbuds were in when I get the unequivocal feeling that I am supposed to be fully present in my environment. I try to reason, then argue down the feeling. But I end up taking my earbuds out and closing the screen.

The instant this is done I hear a young voice and turn to see the four-year-old daughter of my new Muslim friend from the park. And she’s with her father. She recognizes me and we share a few smiles. I’m instantly glad I put off my movie. I haven’t seen my friend in a week or so. I tried to take strawberries over, but the buzzer wasn’t working or she wasn’t in or something.

I have a brief internal debate with myself. What must a man from a culture that requires headdresses think of a woman in shorts being forward enough to introduce herself? But I decide that since he lives here in SF that he would have practiced grace enough in this area to have some for me and my boldness.

So, I go up and introduce myself and chat with his daughter briefly and we shake hands and it’s all well and good and when they leave later he and his daughter call to me and wave goodbye.

And then today, coming back from the laundromat again, me and my enthusiastic Americanism saw a hijabi woman outside my friend’s building and ran across the street to say hi. It is only when I was too close to turn away that I realized it wasn’t her. So, I made another new friend in a different apartment of the same building, directly across from mine.

I am very excited to know these women, these families. And I’m thankful, grumble grumble, for the laundry that takes me down to the street to be present in my neighborhood.  (Is it wrong that I will still buy a washer-dryer as soon as I have space and money for one?)

Ritual Tuesday…

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I am super thrilled to be featured today over on my friend Cara’s blog at www.carameredith.com as a part of her Tuesday series on ritual!

My friend Cara and I bonded over the sea-green cloth-covered folding table positioned at a diagonal in classroom one, also known as … Mom’s group.

Mom’s group is a petri dish for accelerated friendships. Grab a new Momma a cup of coffee with sugar and half-and-half and they may cry. Hold their baby for two seconds and they feel like a new woman. I mean, if you need a friend, ask a new Momma the very basic question, “How are you?”

It’s guaranteed.

Cara is a super-blogger, super-tweeter, and super-speaker extraordinaire. And she just moved away from me in body to the nearby burg of Oakland even while nestling a little closer to my heart.

So go visit www.carameredith.com, read a bit of me, and meet my friend!

Dirty Rags…

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So, laundry is a thing that takes up more of my mental energy since moving to the city.

The washer downstairs is ridiculously old and holds half of a normal load. And the dryer can’t dry a load completely. But it’s the most convenient.

Then, last week, it broke again. For the whole week, the washer sat filled with greasy grey water. The sight of that water every day for a week made me vow off the convenience of the washer downstairs.

So, today I bundled all of the laundry I could fit into my two laundry body bags and had my husband drop me off at the laundromat.

Now, I probably don’t do as much as I could for the environment, but one thing I do is to use cloths for everything. We have cloth napkins, kitchen cloths, and lots and lots of rags. I don’t buy paper towels or paper napkins.

All this to say, my laundry can be pretty gross. The dirty cleaning rags sit in a bucket under the sink. And my kids know where the clean ones are in the bathroom so they often trundle through after, say, they miss the potty, or spill some milk, and toss them in the bucket.

By the time the bucket gets filled it usually smells and has a few weeks worth of bathroom rags in there.

My kitchen rags can be worse because they’re usually wetter. They sit in a separate receptacle with the dirty napkins and can be demoted to cleaning rags at any time. I run a very strict caste system. My kitchen rags live in fear.

The kids laundry, also, is nothing to sniff too closely. I witnessed enough poop smears on the underwear today to initiate a little family meeting to discuss wiping strategies. And I know I have mentioned before that if I manage to get to the bottom of the kids’ hamper I usually discover a gross something at the bottom. Today it was an entire outfit that had hot chocolate spilled all over it.

So, I felt rather disgusting and rather disgusted after loading all of it into the washers. And I sat and waited to put it all in the dryers.

The front loading washers at the laundromat are a joy to watch. They do such a better job than the washer in our building. It’s so comforting to watch the sudsing and the rigorous tumbling.

To be sure, getting clothes clean has always been a rather violent task, the pounding on the rocks, the crushing them through the wringer. And this is a violence I approve of.

Shouldn’t I approve, therefore, of such violent methods in my own life, the tumble and toss of getting clean. And all our sins are as dirty rags, certainly an analogy that the women would have understood. Lord knows I need to be slapped against the rock to remember who I am.

Lord save me from the apathy of the ancient top-loader in my garage!

There is joy in coming clean.

I take the clothes out of the dryer and they smell so fresh and feel so light. And with pleasant surprise I realize they don’t fit as well in my bags. They take up more space. They are more.

As it sometimes happens, you don’t see how dirty things were, how weighed down. It’s like after confession when you are light and clean again and realize, “Oh, I was heavy with it!”

The Rusty Nail…

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It’s official.  I’m becoming my mother.

My sisters will smile sweetly and exchange glances.  They know.  They’ve known for years.

For one, I am embarrassingly over helpful to strangers looking for items in the grocery store.  Then, last week I tucked my undershirt into my pants.  And the other day in a movie a heroine made a poor decision in her love life and I muttered the words, “Choose wisely.”  I just said it!  I didn’t even have to think about it!

Yes, folks, the evidence seems insurmountable.  Maybe the resemblance became stronger when I had kids.  Maybe I just began noticing when we lived together last year, it was right in front of my face, and things did seem more … comfortable.

Maybe ninety percent of it is my maturity.  That’s right, I said maturity.  Thirty-four is quite old enough to entertain this particular theory without outright rejection, don’t you think?  Old enough to embrace with grace the similarities and draw lessons from the faults as I hope my own daughter will.

And let’s be honest, a lot of my problems with my Mom are rooted in teenage angst.  Most of that has nothing to do with her.  I used to get so frustrated at my parents’ ability to sit on the couch and DO NOTHING.  I’m past that.  In fact, I am on board with that.  Put me on the couch and give me nothing!

Yes, I’ve gotten to the point where I can find the value in an evening of fine BBC programming and a rusty nail.  That’s what my Mom drinks, a rusty nail.  It’s scotch and more scotch.  Last night I stopped teasing her about her ridiculously outdated drink long enough to try one.

Last time I tried one I was annoyed with her and it tasted awful.

But yesterday she had just helped me fold ten loads of laundry and put my kids to bed.  It was delicious.

That’s one rusty nail down my gullet and through the heart of an adolescent attitude.

Becoming my Mom has perks.  There is liquor there.