Ever since I became primarily a stay at home mom, there seems to be some kind of mystical illusion as to how I fill days.  My husband’s perception of my day mirrors how he spends his stretch away from the office.  Days as such are spent without restrictions, relaxing in the recliner, computer in hand, calling out “it is too noon somewhere.” He is positive my schedule is comparable.  So when he asks the required yet banal question “what’d you do today?” and I reply with “laundry;” his normal response is “okay, so that took ten minutes. What did you do with the other seven hours?”

Immediately, I bristle.  I refrain from cursing (a big deal) and tell him laundry isn’t easy; it’s actually a big deal.  His response? “There is nothing to just laundry.  You throw it in the washer. You throw it in the dryer.  Signed, sealed, and delivered. Bam. Done.”

My laundry room suddenly transforms into a boxing ring and adrenaline surges through my body. I am Million Dollar Baby (with a better ending). He senses my attack and we begin to slowly circle one another and head to our respective corners.  In my mind I hear Michael Buffer sing “Let’s get ready to rumble! In this corner weighing in at an undisclosed amount, we have our reining and undefeated laundry champion of the world.  In the next corner, weighing in at a butt load of chauvinism is the challenger’s husband.” I am pumped, poised, and ready to begin my fight, my fight for the respect just laundry deserves.

And so I begin. Would you like to change jobs? Would you like to do our own Freaky Friday?

You watch some movies today?  But, sure, I will do just laundry.  Easy.

Somehow, I once again ignore the patronizing comment and commence.  Although it is extremely difficult to put into words everything doing laundry means, I will try. Before we begin, you must agree to uphold the sacred oath of the laundry office.  When you send your family out of this house, it is a reflection upon you.  They look bad, you look bad.   So, follow these guidelines.  They may save your life.

For crying out loud, your flair for drama is clearly showing but, okay.

First, realize that laundry is never truly done.  The euphoria you feel as you conquer the mountainous pile is short lived; items will be added immediately when a squatter returns home.  Be advised, a shirt that is merely wrinkled and not in need of a washing may be sneaked into the basket by a lazy assailant.  Let him/her know this is not acceptable.  Washing clean clothes is extremely unsatisfying.  Do not mince words during this lecture. I think you’ve heard it before.

To even begin, make sure to have a running stock of detergent, good smelling pebbles, bleach, vinegar, and stain remover.  Each is vital to the desired outcome. No, these are not new-fangled products; I can’t help it that you aren’t familiar with each indispensable item. Educate yourself.  Research carefully for hours through Consumer Reports and have endless conversations with colleagues on which products are superior. Make sure to never run out of said product. If one item gets low and there is no replacement on the shelf, you may feel a slight nervous palpitation of the heart.  Don’t let it come to a full blown panic attack.  Run to the local grocery store and pay the outrageous price.  It’s worth it.  No, I am not buying it for you.  In order for you to own the process, you must select the products.

Okay, so obviously, separate the clothes not only by color by but activity.  Work, play, sports, etc. Set the washer accordingly for soil level and type of wash. Construction of the load is a critical thinking skill. You may have to adjust piles.  Take into consideration the types of fabrics and what fabrics wash well together.  Well, duh.  Cotton, polyester, spandex, wool, jean, and numerous other blends. I know you are not familiar with various textiles but you need to become familiar. Remember when you shrank my wool sweater when we attempted to be laundry partners? It was catastrophic in our young marriage.  It was too.  I loved that sweater. It was not ugly.  Furthermore, physics are also important. It doesn’t matter that I failed the actual physics class; had the professor used realistic terms, I might have done better. You must consider how long the load of that particular fabric will take to wash/dry and how long you have before you must begin the chauffeur, homework, and dinner shift. Wet clothes cannot sit in the washer; mildew is your constant adversary. Preparation is a part of the great laundry schema.  Prioritize essential items.

Honestly, essentials are items such as uniforms.  Be sure to check the sports calendar daily, even hourly, and memorize it.  Home and away uniforms are different and it is in your best interest to memorize these for each kid and each sport.   Doing so ensures warding off frantic phone calls, impending disasters, and extreme embarrassment.  Do you want the look from other parents? Have uniforms washed, dried, and put in the respective owner’s basket.  You will have to memorize all apparel proprietorship.  What? The baskets are color coded.  Do you ever even look in the laundry room? You do too have one.  It is white; I have told you that. Your t-shirt that makes you look like “The Rock” may very well be in that basket.  You have not participated in the scheduled “Put your clothes away day” for months. You most certainly have been invited.  It will now be your job to schedule and to monitor closely these days.  Without this, chaos will reign, people will be late, and there will be tantrums, possibly fist fights. Don’t wash the uniforms with the normal clothes and use the special soap you researched for heavy odors. Just because that is the way it is done. Pay attention to sweaty pit stains. Keep an eye out for blood, grass, and carroty clay dirt stains.  Each sport brings its own respective washing challenges.  Watch for rips in uniforms.  However, ask before you sew a hole in the football uniform or even scrub out a blood stain.  Those are badges of honor, so I was told.  Okay, I took it to someone to sew; that is a moot point.  But the owner was really aggravated that I repaired it and I heard about it game after game.  Oh, and check the lucky socks after each game.  You don’t want to make a hell bent trip to the sporting goods store on short notice for a sneaky sock swap.  I can’t help it that you don’t agree with the lucky sock or underwear theory.  I will leave it to you to rationalize this concept with your hysterical athlete before the impending game.

Above all,  size loads appropriately.  I know you think you did that when we were first married.  Remember, how you put so many clothes in the washer the inner layer didn’t even get wet? That isn’t acceptable.  You might get lectured if clothes don’t smell fresh.  Our kids have very sensitive noses.  They can tell if you haven’t done your job.  For instance, pajamas.  They expect clean pjs every night; those supersonic noses can smell even slightly overripe clothing.   Well your own clean pajamas do not just walk themselves to your drawer every night.  I guess you can try to fool them with unwashed items. It’s your job on the line and when they unionize in dispute of administrative practices, they are a formidable bunch.

Speaking of your life, your work clothes need to be immediately removed from a warm dryer and hung quickly to avoid wrinkling.  They look pretty good if you pay careful attention to the dryer cycle.  Heating up the same load twenty-five times when you continually forget to unload it is not all that effective.  My clothes are a different story.  The tags might as well state “wash and dry me and I will NEVER look the same.”  The more you F*&# with these clothes the more irritated you may become.  I am glad you asked that question.  Because the cruel and entrenched arm of patriarchy is no less evident than in the laundry.  All of your clothes readily state “Easy Care! Yeah! Wrinkle Free! Yeah! Wash and wear! Yippee!”  Women’s clothes are outlandish in size, shape, and construction.  Some need the delicate cycle, some need low dry, some need hung up to dry, some need to lie flat, some need ironed. What? Yes, we do own an iron. We do too.  This clothing amalgamation is ALL by design to keep us in the laundry room, in our place.  Society passes judgement on how we look, specifically women.  You go out looking like a bum, it is Bohemian, charming, laisse-faire; kudos to the man who casts off society’s strangulating restrictions. A woman goes out looking like a bum and she is lazy, un-kept, and most likely, unloved. Because of her dress, a malignant rumor will be born and follow her for quite some time, evidence of this is in. . .  What? No, I am certain my students are not bored; they feel empowered by my discourse.  We already decided it was a good thing you were never in my class.

Furthermore, check all pockets.  Never mind that I have washed your wallet in the past.  I assume you are going to do better.  Crayons, Chapstick, and your dumb ink pens are particularly devastating.  Don’t let these enemies set you back.  If the assailant slips by, again, painstaking research is your friend.  Above all, don’t cry.  Then the bastard won and you can’t let that happen. Clean the washer frequently.  Are you kidding me? Yes, it gets dirty and no, it isn’t self- cleaning.  It’s not an oven.

Put all delicate washables in lingerie bags.  Heavy sigh.  It is a small white mesh bag with holes. Okay, yes, like a football bag.  Putting delicates in bags prolongs the life of the items.  Seriously? Things that look delicate, like a bra or a frilly top. Bras get twisted when not in a bag.  It is feasible that you might spend fifteen minutes untangling a knotted bra. Other belongings that look suspicious go in a bag; items that may get sucked out the tube and possibly clog the washer which may result in a $200 repair bill.  I did ask you to look at the washer.  You were busy.  The laundry operation cannot afford to be down for any length of time. Be advised that some of the under garments may make you uncomfortable. You will have just have to work through it.  I refuse to go into detail; it is simply too shocking. I do keep emergency rubber gloves by the washer. Remove the pads from the sports bras to dry separately and do not put the bras in the dyer.  Okay, again, I didn’t design the sport bra or the bra in general but at upwards of $30 a pop, you’d best take care of those items.  No, that isn’t where all of your money is going. It’s going lots of places. Furthermore, when you notice a bra is failing in quality, get rid of it but schedule a shopping day with your daughter for replacement.  I shouldn’t have to take her since I won’t know when these garments become faulty.  You can use these trips to have healthy and meaningful discussions about body image, sex, violence, drugs, and privacy.   I have too taken the boys.  I told you they took the cups out of the packages and ran through the store with them on the outside of their pants. Why do you look so pale? It is all part of just laundry.

An overall duty is, in fact, maintenance of clothing items. Scrub the ring around the collar out of your work shirts.  You do too have it, you just don’t know you have it because I fix it.  Non-consequential socks with holes go into the basket to make dog toys.  Keep an eye on the Goodwill box.  Ugh! It is a box in the laundry room where you put the items you deem, for whatever reason, no longer of use.  No, your “Rock” t-shirt isn’t in it.  Check your white basket. But don’t get rid of special items; those items go in the box in my closet. You know, like to make a t-shirt quilt when the kids graduate.  Geez, because you have to have a clear vision of the future.  A future when the role as patron of the laundry diminishes.

It is in these moments though, that I must warn you of the waves of sentimentality that may move upon you.  Moments like these come on quickly and virtually without warning.  Yes, during laundry.  One day, as I pulled our oldest son’s extra-large football jersey from the wash, I suddenly remembered the very first load of laundry I did for my very first baby.  Was anything sweeter than that first load? I remember folding every miniature onesie so carefully and the jeans! Those so small jeans that I couldn’t wait to put on him. I remember dressing him like my living doll while paying careful attention to the softest most blissfully scented skin imaginable. Pulling out a large fetid sport sock sometimes makes me long for those splendidly small socks that the washer perpetually ate in every load.   I then realize the sport sock is larger than his first pair of jeans. I remember the truly honest to God miracle of creation when this child was placed in my arms for the first time.  I ache to go back to that moment that no photograph, except for my minds’ eye, can truly capture and I worry endlessly about the possibility of forgetting that moment.  As I pull a blanket from the dryer, I remember the security blankets that are still in the kids’ rooms but now as an after-thought. How can these items that were so loved now collect so much dust? I recall the last minute frantic searches for “kee-kee,” and the Halleluiah of relief when found. I remember thinking I was never going to smell like anything but baby; my nose is frequently overcome with longing for the distinct and reassuring smell of Dreft.  I have to fight the urge to run and buy a box and I still linger in front of it at the store. When I removed our teenage daughter’s sundress from the lingerie bag, my eyes filled with the sight of her first multi-colored iridescent princess dress.   She twirled and swirled that dress day after day for months on end, so much so that it began to disintegrate before our eyes.  I feel the crinkly scratchy fabric that dented my skin as I rocked her to sooth away the nightmare phase.  Remember when I had to crawl into her room in the dark of night to sneak out the dress for a washing? I still consider this the greatest heist of my career. It is in these times that I realize the days I thought would never end have indeed ended.  They ended with a finality that I was and am woefully unprepared. So, in these times, if you suddenly find yourself slumped by the washer clinging desperately to a sweaty jersey with tears spilling down your face, try to not worry.  I assume this is normal.  I do know that the recovery time from an episode varies. Spending an hour in a fetal position may not be the best solution, but if it works, it works. Laundry is a dangerous job.  Be knowledgeable and have a plan.

I begin to think about plans.  Plans I made, plans that worked, and didn’t work.  How life interrupted my plans.  Sometimes joyfully, sometimes sorrowfully.  I realize I don’t have a plan for when all of this laundry ends and honestly, it terrifies me.  Won’t having so little laundry leave a vacancy in my heart?  Won’t I ache for this bedlam that I try so hard to control but fail miserably? At this point I stop and look at the guy across from me.  I see him lying in the boxing ring and Buffer counts him out cold. I am fairly certain he sees that too. I realize I haven’t even gotten to the towel and bedding washing schedules. Dog blanket washing, curtain washing (well in my mind I wash these).  I need more time to explain special event washing like items that have been victimized by horrific bouts of stomach flu. After all, you can’t be declared the sovereign ruler of laundry until you have battled consecutive, simultaneous expulsion of bodily fluids on various items within a twenty foot radius of the aggressor.

But I push beyond that too and think about the laundry I have done for him over the years.  The sports, the army, the farm, the blue-collar, the professional.  Each article of clothing tells a story about our journey together. Laundry is dirty business and we have shared a lot of it.  I think, if you can survive the dirty laundry, you can survive anything.  Each load tells a story of our life.  It’s an unpredictable story, it’s a dirty story, but it comes out pretty clean in the end.

In many ways, it made perfect sense to take our four young children on a “just beach” vacation.  When I told the kids what we planned, they looked at me skeptically but I gently reminded them of the horrors of family cup sharing, the stifling heat, the claustrophobic crowds, and the maze of lines at Disney.  So, it wasn’t long before I won them over with enticing tales of an endless sandbox nestled against serene blue waters. They were even more impressed with the “yes” instead of the normal “GD NO” purchases at the dollar store; we left with gobs of goggles, buckets, flippers, and boogie boards.  If the item resembled a beach toy, I bought it. There was no end to my madness.  While packing, I dreamily envisioned our car filled with contented faces, karaoke, and peace abound.  Little did I know that what was in store for us was “Armageddon ‘11.”

Our oldest, Reese, coined the term for us in route when the first of the critical injustices occurred. He swiftly filed a grievance and we were made to listen to the ever-growing list for hours.  Through remote areas of Alabama, he could not get an internet signal; therefore, he could not play his online video game.  Didn’t we know that actual battles of life and death were waged when he was logged off the site?  While in the car, he was forced to sit in near proximity to one of his three siblings without poking, prodding, or provoking in any way shape or form. Impossible.  In the midst of our van screeching through desolate areas at top speeds, he was forced to listen to his dad and me play “Name that 80’s Tune.” Things really came to head when Ray and I began to hold hands and swoon to a love song that took us back to a carefree pre-minivan era.  This was too much.  Under the weight of the forced imprisonment, what ensued was a volcanic burst of “you guys are gross” which ultimately lead to a repetitive hysterical bout of    “I HATE FAMILY VACATION.” But in Reese’s bubbling incoherent eruption what we all heard was “this is Armageddon.”  And indeed, it was.

When we finally arrived at our beach house in the black hours of the night, I collapsed. Reed and Roark somehow found me and in panicked voices said “Sissy is crying! Sissy is crying!”  Since their idolized Sissy was not allowed to cry, I dragged my weary self to find her hiding in a corner of the bathroom.  Through her choked sobs I understood that she didn’t appreciate the sleeping arrangements.  No room of her own so subsequently no TV or bed of her own. The prior arrangements of bunking in the living room on a sleeper sofa near Reese “who is already farting and touching me with his wart” was no longer her ideal. With much calm discussion at 2am, we finally decided that she would bunk with Reed and Roark in their room. She would run the full show, operate the TV/ DVD player, and alternate nights in each bunk bed with each brother.  The little boys positively glowed. After three matches of “rock, scissors, paper,” Reagan settled in with Roark for the first night and I was able to stagger back to my bed.  I passed into a coma-like sleep but awoke with little room in the bed as both Ray and Reese were staking claim in my area.  Apparently, Reese couldn’t figure out the sofa bed so he took refuge in the only spot where he would still be welcome, or the very least, not thrown from the room.

In the morning, however, as we opened the shades, the sun burst into our eyes, the roar of the surf filled our room, and complete serenity overcame us.  Reed looked out at the rolling white dunes, and in his precious wonderment exclaimed “Mama, how does it snow here?” As I drew him into a loving embrace, we laughed softly and harmoniously. Yes, Reese called him stupid, twice, but I acted deaf to his insults; after all, it was a new day. Everything seemed well with the world, until Ray went down to the water.

Seaweed. Our promised crystal blue waters were green, and not just a little green, a lot green.  Apparently this phenomenon occurs yearly and just happened to occur in our week.  The vacation brochure certainly didn’t mention this possibility and when I nonchalantly brought up the seaweed in conversation with our year-round neighbor, she lamented “It sure does stink for y’all.  Our waters are normally so pretty.”  This time was also a brave moment of motherhood.  I frolicked through the disgusting mass of slime even though I was sure that beneath it a creature of grotesque stature lie in wait to suck me under and carry me away.  When I could take no more, I sprinted out of the water and feigned a cheerful “Bet you can’t catch me!” After we got out of the water and took off our bathing suits, it looked as if we were science experiments. Furry patches of seaweed attached itself like superglue to our bodies; I found it in places it should never be found and no amount of washing could get the funky overripe salad smell from the swim suits.  Great green globs clogged the drains and I spent hours picking it out of the bathrooms to ensure the return of our deposit.   The kids spent more time in the outdoor shower than in the ocean which moved me to put toiletries outside as well.  Whatever works.

“Let’s go down to the beach” became the phrase that sparked awful crying jags. Not one to admit defeat, I offered the “Let’s go play in the sand.”  Next, incredulously, “Sand, who doesn’t like sand?” The reply, “Mom, it is just sand. That’s all. We’ve seen it.”  Anyway, Reesezilla refused to let sand castles gain any height at all. The dollar toys didn’t make it past  over-zealous digging and they littered the walk-way from the beach like a Hansel and Gretel path of salvation to the air-conditioned house.  Despite copious amounts of sunblock, the kids still burned in oddly shaped patches and rashes ran freely over delicate areas.  Walking was excruciating for the boys who were introduced cruelly to the phenomenon of gaulding and no amount of “manning up” could make them work through the pain.  If we made it to the beach, one of the boys would inevitably lose his suit, my husband would lose his mind, and we would make the long walk of shame back to the house.  Throughout the week, I found myself making deals that I knew were not good for me; deals that would haunt my motherhood for years to come.  Yet, these were desperate times that called for, as they say, desperate measures.

However, during the week, suddenly the seaweed parted and a patch of blue water appeared.  All six of us crowded into a small clear area of water furiously trying to rub the seaweed from our bodies as we were slowly enveloped again and again in the greenness.  But really, the vacation is symbolic of our everyday life – Armageddon interspersed with patches of calm. When I am in the thick of our life with bills, frenzied schedules, sickness, unfinished homework, and sleepless nights, I forget that it is this life I love.  It is amid the chaos that I see my children for the miracles they are and my eyes fill with tears and I tremble at the ferocity of emotions I never knew were possible.   It is in these moments that I know Armageddon does not rule my life, love rules my life, and I know that the clear patches of blue make all the seaweed worthwhile.

 

Just Another Day

It was a day like any other day in our 1980 6^th grade class at West School.  We had returned from recess and were settling down in our seats. The air smelled heavily of salty pre-pubescent kids cooling from a loosely supervised recess.  Sunlight streamed through the squared wooden windows which highlighted the swirling dust.  Though the thought of tarrying crossed our minds, we did not, because Mr. Bouldin was already at the front of the room and students did not tarry in his presence.

To understand the events of the day, it is imperative to understand the time and Mr. Bouldin which seem inexplicably intertwined.  Though Mr. Bouldin taught us all subjects history was his first love, and the army his second. Often times his wife even admitted to coming in third. He was a decorated Korean War Veteran, and at the time, Bouldin, as the most daring of children referred to him, was an active army reservist. He ran his classroom much like a military unit. Justice was swift and fair and generally not questioned.   The “Board of Education” i.e., the paddle, loomed ominously at the front of the room for all to see. Of course, children could be paddled in 1980 and were if deemed appropriate.  Not one of us thought it unfair or cruel.  If it happened, there was good reason and the student who had broken the law would return from the hall with red rimmed eyes and a snuffling nose.  The student in question might invoke bravado at recess with “Ole’ Chrome Dome didn’t have a swing anymore,” but we all knew it was an outright lie.  And yes, Bouldin sported a completely shaved head.  For someone who followed military order in all aspects of his life, he also prided himself on bucking the system a bit. He refused to wear a tie, and often wore the same type of clothing daily- loose trousers, shirt untucked, slipper-like shoes. The pipe he smoked at break and at lunch lay outright on the desk and cherry-apple scents lingered in the room and on his clothes.  Shockingly, he referred to Jesus Christ by name, in class, as a historical figure.  We were instructed to ask to use the toilet, or the latrine because “you had better not be going in there to take a bath.”  Once during a boil order we were allowed to suck rocks from the playground because “that is what soldiers did in extreme cases of thirst.”  Classical music played at all times during lessons and he implemented student centered learning, independent practice and collaborative projects before these had names and were fashionable.  All of this was in conjunction with “one of the greatest presidents of all time” coming to fruition: Ronald Reagan. The American hostages in Iran were freed, the USA won the gold in hockey, The Cold War was coming to a close with the most powerful nation in the world victorious.   This was my home for 185 days.  And I loved it; we all did.

When two girls walked into the room though, on this day, our world was rocked.  Immediately, before the girls could get seated, Mr. Bouldin boomed “Stacey, Jodi- in the hall, NOW.”  No questions- the girls scuttled into the hall.  He then grabbed “The Board of Education” and stormed out, slamming the door viciously.   Suddenly, we heard yelling- yelling that didn’t quite make sense- screaming and nonsensical accusations.    We heard the girls trying to talk but were drowned by our teacher’s bass voice.  Then, we heard the horrific “SMACK- pause- SMACK” of the paddle.  Then we heard crying and pitiful wailing.

In our room there was bone-chilling silence.  We looked at one another but said nothing; most of us were too scared to move.   I could feel the sweat pooling in my own arm pits.  Finally, a squeak- “What’d they do?”  There were mummers of hearsay that grew from “nothing” to very rapid and rabid accusations of cheating on tests, of mockery, of lying.  Nervously, we looked at each other.  Surely, these girls had done something to deserve such punishment and surely our own innocence would protect each of us from such awful retribution.  When I really look into the abysmal corner of our hearts that day, I find many of us were secretly glad these two were paddled; they were popular, pretty, got all of the attention and all of the “A’s.”  Maybe justice had truly been served.

With that thought, Mr. Bouldin threw open the door and in walked the still petrified sniveling girls.  His voice icy, he asked “People, what did these girls do?” Silence.  He raised his voice another level: “I said ‘tell me what did these girls do?’” There was a bit of head shaking, a bit of mumbling but again, nothing.  The stifling silence.  And with that, Mr. Bouldin coldly delivered the line that haunts me to this day:

“It is 1933 people.  Welcome to Nazi Germany.”

And so began our study of WWII history.

We learned about Hitler’s rise to power and the horrific atrocities of the Nazi’s.  We saw pictures and film of these fiendish acts and I might add, no notes were sent home asking parental permission if such material could be taught and shown to us.  Did it give us nightmares?  Hell yes.  But what stays with me is the look in Mr. Bouldin’s eyes as we sat in silence and watched blindly the persecution of our fellow man.  And that is what he taught us.

Of course we learned the girls were in on the act with him and should have won an academy award that day for their performance as well.   Mr. Bouldin even offered to “Pull down my pants and show you where I hit myself on my own leg,” but luckily, that was not needed.  We believed him.

From that point on, I’d like to say I always made the right choices in my life but I didn’t.  What I can say is that from that point on, I was and am forever mindful of that lesson of that day.  I tried to re-enact it once in my own teaching career but it fell flat for a number of reasons; actually it was quite an embarrassing folly into imitation.  But the number one reason it didn’t work is that there is only one man who could have pulled off this lesson and that man is our 6^th grade teacher, Mr. Robert J. Bouldin, LTC, Ret. Army.

By: Shelley Burgess Lewis – January 27, 2016