Ever have a laundry pile so high that you contemplated bungee jumping off of it? I have. I mean, not to brag or anything, but my laundry pile is so tall right now that bungee jumping could be a possibility. I am already calculating how much I could charge the neighborhood children per jump, I mean, if our neighborhood had any children that is.
People think climbing Mt. Everest is difficult, but that is only because they have never had to face Mt. Laundry armed only with a 1/4 cup of laundry detergent and a will to survive. I’m putting on my sweatbands and cranking up the Rocky theme song as I type this blog post because I am multitasking like mountaineers only wish they could. I am taking this mountain down one smelly sock and blog post paragraph at a time.
When you take a ten day road trip with your family, you arrive home with dirty laundry in the poundage. Even the laundry that once was clean is now dirty because, in the mad dash to exit the hotel before checkout time, clean laundry and dirty laundry began to commingle. Your luggage becomes a cocktail party where two worlds should never collide, but they do just like one of those gritty TV series on HBO.
Then you stare at the laundry you left behind when you began your trip (because it is still there, right where you left it, ten days later), both washed and unwashed, in piles by your washing machine and you wonder how three people could possibly own so may articles of clothing. Throw in the sheets, blankets, and towels from the house-sitter, who has been occupying your home for the past ten days, and you have yourself a real challenge. Like an Olympic challenge where gold medals should be awarded.
You will climb and conquer Mt. Laundry. You will bungee jump from it’s peak. You will be a laundry washing and folding hero, except nobody will notice because you are mom and everyone in your family thinks laundry is done by magic. There will be no accolades, no shouts of, “Thanks for that amazingly clean underwear!” and nobody will write a book about your epic feats.
Don’t worry though, I see you moms out there! I know who the real heroes are.
P.S. I’m writing over at In The Powder Room Room today! Check out my post: That Time My Daughter Called Her Dad a Pecker.