Why You Should Always Put Away the Laundry

There is a basket of laundry in my bedroom that has been there for a week. The clothes are clean. They're even folded. And every day I look at the basket and think to myself, "Today. Today will be the day I put away those clothes." But another day passes and there it sits. I don't even know what's in it anymore.

Well, this afternoon, during what I like to call the magic hours when Henry is at preschool and Sadie is (usually) napping and I magically restore order to the household, I raced around trying to complete the list of chores and to-dos that can only be done or at least be done best without children present.

I cleaned the kitchen floor. Wiped smeared cottage cheese and peanut butter off the table and chairs. Emptied and refilled the dishwasher. Changed a load of laundry. Refilled the Brita. Cleaned the high chair. Washed two pacifiers. Took out the trash. Opened a new box of trash bags. Watered the plants. Packed snacks for the gym. Washed and cut the strawberries. Washed and cut the celery. Ate a piece of celery. Took a drink of water. Glanced at the clock: I had an hour left.

I checked on the baby who was sleeping soundly in her car seat at the foot of the stairs. I checked Facebook. Then, I started round two.

I sprinted up the stairs to the bathroom, where I opened up the childproof cleaning box, grabbed the bleach and sprinkled the toilet, sink and tub. Scrubbed and cleaned the bathroom. Found a little space under the bathtub faucet that had not been cleaned since 1982. Cleaned it. Mentally reminded myself to buy more Comet and a new scrub brush. Washed the baby's bathtub, rinsed it three times. Changed the hand towels.  Refilled the toddler wipes. Wiped down the mirror. Tried to ignore how much I needed a highlight. Smiled remembering I had made an appointment for May 1.

I picked up my iPod touch and checked the time. Thirty minutes left.

I hurried into my bedroom to change for the gym excited at the prospect of having a few minutes to sit down, but was distracted by what I found there. I completely forgot that I had dumped a different basket of laundry on the bed earlier. Of course, I'd had every intention of folding it before preschool, but let's just say there were some unforeseen roadblocks that  may or may not have included rubbing squished cottage cheese curds out of Henry's shirt and pants. (He refused to change.)

I looked again at the clock, looked back at the clothes. Determined that towels, t-shirts and socks would be fairly easy to combat in a short amount of time. I thought I could do it. So I started. Then, I thought, "Well, maybe I should change first; in case the baby wakes up."

I took off my shirt. For some reason, my mind returned to the laundry before putting another shirt on. This is what happens when the brain starts to shut down after an hour or so of rapid fire task-tackling.

So there I was, folding the towels in my bra and jeans, knowing all the while it was ridiculous. Right at that moment the baby woke screaming. You might recall she was still in her car seat at the bottom of the stairs, which happens to be right in front of my windowed front door. No time for modesty, though. Down the stairs to reinsert the pacifier. Screaming stops instantly. I watched for a moment as her pretty eyelashes closed again over her brown-green eyes. Then I sprinted back up the stairs ... still half-dressed.

I knew I should finish one thing or the other, so I changed into my sports bra and took off my jeans. Grabbed a pair of socks off the bed and put them on (two birds ...). Then, wouldn't you know it? The screaming starts again. Down the stairs to the rescue ... this time in a much more precarious position--basically naked. I prayed that this would not be the moment the mailman walked up to the door. And surprisingly, considering my usual luck, he did not. It was a small victory, and I was grateful. I reinserted the pacifier, and returned up the stairs. Figured I should just quickly put away what I had folded since it seemed Sadie was on her way to full-on wake up. Folding, naked. It's the new busy.

By the time I actually went to get dressed, I had ten minutes left to wake and change the baby, pack the gym bag and get out the door to preschool pick-up. I threw on a shirt. But when I went to grab my workout pants, that little space in my drawer where all my black pants sit was empty. I pulled everything out. I finally found one pair. The dreaded pair. You know, the pair that's buried under everything for a reason. The pair that should be tossed because they are a size too small and have a tendency to slowly creep down my backside if I get running too fast. (Very distracting). "Where are all my freakin' workout pants?" I shout. I mean, all that laundry. No clean pants?

Then I remembered where those pants were ... the bottom of the week-ago basket.