By: Charlotte Jensen
Updated: Aug. 26, 2019
Originally Published: Aug. 14, 2015
All three of my boys are peacefully asleep. My 2-year-old is cozily tucked in with a noise machine playing gentle ocean sounds nearby. Meanwhile, my 5-year-old rests in his own room, nestled against his father, who is also dozing off with a book resting on his stomach as he snores softly, the light still aglow. The house is enveloped in tranquility.
It’s that time again—another load of laundry awaits. I grab the basket and pour its contents onto my bed. A chaotic assortment of men’s dress shirts, women’s yoga pants, little boys’ tees, and a scattering of socks and underwear confronts me. I estimate I’ll need a minimum of twenty minutes to tackle this mountain. Sipping from a glass of white wine perched on my nightstand, I brace myself for the seemingly endless chore.
As I sift through the pile searching for a matching pair to a set of 5T Transformers pajamas, I can’t help but reflect on the countless hours spent sorting, washing, folding, and putting away laundry. I was lucky enough to have a mother who took care of my laundry until I left for college at 18, which means my laundry journey officially began then.
Calculating my current age and subtracting 18 gives me my total laundry years. I typically manage about five loads a week, so I take a brief break from matching socks to whip out my phone and do some math—five multiplied by 52 weeks in a year. A final calculation reveals that I’ve done approximately 4,425 loads of laundry throughout my life.
Setting my phone down, I take another sip of my wine. With each load taking around 30 minutes to wash and fold, that totals about 132,750 minutes, or 2,213 hours of my youthful life. So many more loads lie ahead.
I hang a youth XS T-ball jersey, lightly stained, and reminisce about my college days when I could carry two heavy laundry bags back home to my mom. Folding a pair of size 8 capris triggers memories from a decade ago when I was folding size 16 jeans during an unhappy marriage. A small smile creeps across my face as I recall hanging size 10 skirts during my single days, embracing my newfound freedom.
I toss my colorful, comfortable underwear into a pile, choosing to skip folding them and simply tossing them into a drawer. There was a time when I hand-washed delicate lingerie during my engagement. Now, I’m folding my husband’s work pants, remembering the suits I used to hang after remarrying, enjoying life without kids. Soon, though, I was folding maternity clothes, my wardrobe expanding rapidly as my life changed.
Nine months later, my laundry basket overflowed with burp cloths, crib sheets, and onesies, while my own wardrobe had shrunk to a pair of yoga pants worn countless times, an unglamorous nursing bra, and well-loved T-shirts. I recall the morning I decided sorting by color was too time-consuming, opting instead to cram everything into the washing machine—a decision I regretted after discovering a diaper had disintegrated in the wash.
I chuckle at the moments I’ve avoided washing my husband’s clothes simply because they were piled next to an empty laundry basket. As I fold 3T shorts, a stray newborn sock tumbles out. I examine it, recalling my laundry loads from two years ago, when I was once again in maternity attire.
A sigh escapes me as I find a pair of 5T pants, newly ripped at the knee, and I set them beside a pile of superhero underwear. I ponder the day when my boys will be too embarrassed to have me folding their boxers, and I grimace at the thought of what I might discover in their jeans pockets.
I think about what my laundry basket will never hold—pink, frilly dresses, sparkly tops, or Disney Princess socks. A pang of nostalgia hits me as I consider what I will miss once my boys are grown and gone. I clutch my toddler son’s tiny striped sock to my heart, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath before searching for its match.
Twenty minutes later, the mountain on my bed has vanished. I sit on the edge of the bed, finishing my glass of wine. Another load awaits tomorrow.
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In summary, laundry is more than just a mundane task; it’s a reflection of life’s changes, memories, and milestones. Each load tells a story of growth, nostalgia, and the journey of motherhood.