Who told the kids???

Once upon a time…

When the Webmaster and I first started dating and spending lots of time together, I began to notice that this man who liked wearing nice clothes only washed them when he had run out. In the meantime, the dirty laundry piled up in his room, making attractive mounds of cloth that bred more attractive mounds.

This drove me slightly nuts, and, having time on my hands while I was over, I blithely ran a load of laundry for him.

At the time, he was renting a house with a couple other guys (Handy Guy and Carter’s Dad, who eventually became permanently stuck in our group of friends. Handy Guy married Handy Girl, and Carter’s Dad married Carter’s Mom – Carter is their dog). Anyway, this apparently shocked the socks off everyone who heard that I had done the Webmaster’s laundry. (And then I ironed something and Carter’s Dad wondered aloud why he couldn’t get Carter’s Mom to do this, which got him in trouble – they were still dating at the time.) It wasn’t a big deal to me – the laundry had to be done, so I did it. Then I received the thanks of his roommates, who were becoming concerned about the – ahem – smell.

So I got this reputation of being really good with laundry. I actually don’t mind doing the laundry. Thanks to electricity, the industrial revolution, General Electric and Dreft, doing the laundry is not the huge deal it used to be when, oh, the Pilgrims were pounding their clothes on rocks in Plymouth Harbor. Even hanging it up outside gives me a great deal of satisfaction, as faithful readers know. I always feel a great sense of personal accomplishment when the laundry is finished, and I enjoy that.

I want to know who ratted me out to the kids.

It’s as if someone told them all of this, then they put their little heads together and said to each other, “Oh! Mommy likes doing laundry! Let’s not deprive her of something that she likes to do!” Then they each calculated ways to create the most laundry possible. I would lay money on that they are actually in competition with each other to see which one of them needs more wardrobe changes in a day. So far, Baby Boy is winning with three. But his repetoire is limited to two things – spit-up and poop. The Munchkin has a far wider array of weapons at her disposal – ketchup, juice, vegetable soup – but she does not eschew the value of a good diaper blowout or a bloody nose.

Bring on my weapons. Clorox bleach pen? Check. Shout in a spray bottle? Check. Shout gel with scrubby brush? Check. Oxi-Clean? Check. Dreft, powder and liquid? Check. Ammonia? Check.

I can handle this. My septic tank will handle this.

But if I ever find out who talked to the kids, they are dead meat.

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