It’s my laundry and I’ll cry if I want to

I have a lot of banes of my existence. People who tell me I can’t say sentences like that are a bane of my existence. I do what I want. But also, people who honk at me at the red light, bane. Stale Oreos, bane. Etc. The primary bane of my existence I will be referencing today is the re-washing of clothes that have not been worn. Is it an actual problem, in the midst of actual actual problems like world hunger? Yes. It is still a problem. An infinitesimal problem is still a problem.

Obviously I am very good at blogging. I take 6 month breaks and then I spend my first 200 words not saying anything. You should take notes.

So today, I was scooping massive piles of laundry and probably shoes, toys and petrified squirrels into the washing machine, and I noticed a little white angel costume. “She hasn’t worn this in forever,” I thought to myself, and probably I said it out loud, because I like to keep Richy on his toes re: my sanity. “She hasn’t worn this in forever and I have washed it like 150 times.”

“And when was the last time she worn the unicorn suit?” I thought. “Or this German housewife getup? Or the lion suit…” A terrible realization washed over me. She’s too old for costumes. No one is wearing the costumes because everyone is growing up. ALL MY CHILDREN ARE GOING TO LEAVE ME. Briefly, I considered clutching a pile of strangely pre-teen smelling clothes to my bosom for dramatic effect, but the smell, you know? I’m not that sentimental, yet.

I remember the day I wept over a pair of white cowgirl boots, because they were too small for her and she’d never wear them again. I have a box of things she has outgrown, at least one box. I have several boxes. I’m gonna be fine.

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“You’re gonna miss this” they used to tell me when the kids would poop on the floor and then drive the stroller through it or eat ice off the movie theater floor or eat food from under the thrift store shelf… (I’m starting to wonder if my kids are hungry) “You’re gonna miss this” and I don’t. I don’t miss that. I don’t miss the diapers or just trying not to cry and sweating all the time because little people are fast and smart and dangerous and no mom on earth can keep up. I don’t miss that. And I’m not hugely emotional. I don’t cry much or easily. But if you needed to incapacitate me, those little boots could do it.

I’m not gonna miss the laundry. Probably. I’m fine.

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