Saturday is chore day. I go to the grocery, clean the house and do the laundry. It is a ritual and everyone understands their role in MY chore day. I strip beds, pull towels, catch stray socks that Winston has decided to kidnap under my bed. Each member of my household follows suit and knows what I expect. Or so I thought.
When we were young, my mother used to fold the laundry; as is. If it was wrong side out, so it was folded. I also remember the banshee-ish wail if we forgot to empty our pockets of any animal, vegetable, or mineral and it went through her washing machine or dryer. Oh my brother and I would cringe as the voice got louder and faster with each syllable; all over a stray tissue or a penny.
But there I was; being my mother's daughter. I sorted and dumped each load until I reached the dreaded dark colors.(Cue tense, scary music) I did my usual deal and wandered off. Little did I know.
When I returned to switch out, I opened the lid and felt my shoulders knot up with aggravation. My lips pursed so tightly they disappeared into my face. And I heaved my signature "here it comes" sigh. Down the hall I march into the living room like a military parade where my unsuspecting family was playing video games. I held up my red shirt which NOW looks like it spent the last four weeks nestling some rare egret with a skin disorder causing it to lose all its downy feathers. There are fuzzies and feathers and puffballs interwoven into its very being. I also hold up a pair of black pants. Wait. To be totally honest they are the color of roadside snow; not really black, not really grey. Again there is an infestation of fuzzy tribble-like "powder". I am beginning to boil because the entire LOAD is like this. And in the bottom of my washer? A SPRING!!!! A FRIGGIN SPRING!
"Who didn't empty their pockets???!!!" my mother is shrieking in the back of my mind.
"What is this?" I ask tripping over the words trying to sneak out instead.
My kids are attacked by the shoulder gnome. He's the invisible critter that does everything in my house but when it comes time for the kids to fess up, he shrugs their shoulders and strikes them mute. Great game. I like it a lot.
"I asked a question!" my mother and I have picked up volume and speed. My jaw clenches to keep her quiet. No, this can't be happening. But I envision the nest of soggy, clumpy, rapidly hardening "stuff" in my washer and I confess, I drop my basket. I give in and become my mother. I proceed to unload on the kids. I shake the whimpering garments which produces a fluffy cloud and manage to only kick me into high gear since I just vacuumed and dusted. I fling a barrage of pleas, warnings, threats at such a rapid rate everyone is stunned, even my husband. Perhaps they just didn't understand them. After all, when you speak "mother" no one gets it. I stalk off STILL rattling the clothes leaving a trail of stuff behind me. "PICK THIS STUFF UP!" I hear my mother and I yell. "I'm nobody's maid." I begin to mutter to myself (or is it selves?) and I know I look like a bobble-head..just shakin and a-tallllkin away; to no-one.
I am back to the dryer, trying to de-lint all my clothes and scolding them as well. (something along the lines of "Stupid shirt, don't even WEAR it. And who likes these pants? Too dark for summer....) The kids are scurrying to pick up fuzzies and what feels like used up tissue. Gross. Into the dryer goes my frightened wardrobe. I must move on. I have chores to do. I am still muttering.
Two days pass. Every night, I am on the kids "Did you empty your pockets? Their pupils constrict in fear. "Yes we did." is their soft answer and they run away. Nice job Mom.
At dinner that night. My husband is pensive and quiet. Before the meal is over he stretches his arms and clasps both corners of the table; bracing himself. This can't be good.
"I owe you an apology." he says directly to the children. They stop mid-bite. "I did a bad thing."
Now I stop.
"I did not empty my pockets and my mini-notebook was in my work pants. It blew up in your mother's washer and well, made quite a mess. It was me. I'm sorry."
Cue tense music. The kids' jaws are hanging open. Cheech simply claps his hands, rubs them together and says"Who wants dessert?"
I'll leave you with this: The vision of an eight and ten year old dropping their baskets? Is much like that notebook in my washer. It was TRULY a big bang. Cheech will be buying ice cream and video games for a long time. And they truly relish their new ritual. "Daddy? Did you empty YOUR pockets?"
...and so it goes.
Have a nice day, thanks for coming to visit. I hope you smiled.
