So, I've always hated folding laundry.
When I was a kid, my mom would dump a basket of warm, fresh-out-of-the-dryer laundry on my head while I was watching TV. And I would throw a fit. I HATED folding laundry.
My husband taught me how to fold towels and his undershirts. I do my best. They don't look that great. I once saw an employee at the Gap folding a huge pile of shirts and almost hugged her out of sympathy.
Occasionally, I'll get a type-A babysitter who likes folding laundry... man, is that heaven! It's an art-form. Fitted sheets are practically creased at the edges. T-shirts folded so perfectly that I can stack them 20-high and they don't topple over. I am jealous of her skill, but so thankful.
We'll, we've been trying to save money lately. Less babysitters = more laundry folding.
So, here I am.
And I realize that even though it IS a chore, it always goes faster than I think it will. And if I make the kids sort the socks, half of my sanity is saved.
(cue dramatic breakthrough music)
There is something about handling my little kids clothes that is sweet. Not that it's some sort of meditative moment... it's not... but something good happens. I fold my baby's t-shirt and I remember my 10 year old wearing it when she was 2. I find another rip in my son's pants and am glad that he has woods to romp in behind our house and friends to romp in it with. There is a pile of the same skirt in 4 different colors that I bought for my 4 year old, because she won't wear anything else. I fold a pair of footy jammies that have gotten just way to small for my little one. I realize I can't tell between my t-shirt and my oldest's t-shirt and that's just plain scary.
Their clothes say a lot about them. I know them. Their clothing tells a story. Not in a fashion magazine kind of way. Just their little, simple lives. I see them changing, playing, becoming more sophisticated... growing up.
And, sometimes, it takes something as plain and ordinary as laundry to remind me of that.