It is never ever one pile. It’s a plethora of piles. Mountains, really. (I am uniquely blessed with three vivacious princesses who love to play like strapping boys in the dirt.) And just when I think I am through, I discover Abi has emptied a whole tube of lavendar-scented lotion all over my bed. MY bed. (Please, tell me I am not the only mother this sort of thing happens to.) *sigh* So, if anyone needs me, I’ll be in the wash room up to my neck in bedding.
Someday… I will miss this.
Many moons ago, I wrote this bit of rhyme and stumbled upon it rather recently. And it still rings true. More. Than. Ever.
The Prodigal Sock
Everyone knows this story I tell,
The one that brings grief and weeping as well.
It starts with the day you find nothing to wear,
And you’ll never do this again so you swear.
“Surely there must be a way to get by,
Without doing all of this laundry,” you sigh.
You put in your colors and then all your whites,
You add the detergent and squeal with delight.
The thrill of a clean pile of clothes makes you smile,
But something is terribly wrong all the while.
You sit and you wait for your laundry all night,
It’s not ’til later that you see your plight.
The washer and dryer have plotted before,
This time’s the same as you open the door.
The dryer waits silent as you sort the heap,
And folding your clothes, you sheepishly weep.
You go through two times, just to make sure,
But you should have known that this would occur.
It’s missing again and ne’er to be found,
It’s not still inside and not on the ground.
They did it again, those horrible gadgets,
Someone must break them of their awful habits.
It’s your favorite sock, the cause for dispute,
The one with the stripes, the one that is cute!
I guess they got hungry and swallowed their treat,
Your yellow-orange sock, for your little pink feet.
So when you do laundry, remember this talk,
Life carries on with the Prodigal Sock.
Don’t forget the coffee…