Loads

Heavy. The first time I started washing clothes I was a kid. A little girl. I’d been putting my dirty clothes in the hamper liked I’d always done, only now they just stayed in there. I didn’t even notice it was happening until the day they were piled up so high that the top couldn’t close, and I remembered that my momma wasn’t there any more to take them out and wash them. Even then, it wasn’t until I opened my dresser drawers, one after the other, only to find that each one was empty, that the thought occurred to me that I had to do something. I remember not knowing how to use the machine. Staring up at the markings around the dial. Standing on my tippy toes to lift the lid. Peering into the dark and silent depths underneath. Being afraid that it would spew suds all over the house like I’d seen on television.

I washed them by hand in the bathtub.

Delicates. Sometime later, after one too many times falling through the cracks of my dad’s hard-working and very broken heart, I would figure it out myself, get over my fear, and begin washing my clothes in the machine like my momma had before she died. And I would love knowing how to do this, love choosing the cycle and the sound of the dial as I turned it, love hearing the water rushing in, love that it was doing exactly what it was supposed to be doing, what it had always done for my momma, love that now it was doing the same for me, bringing sound and movement and fresh clothes back into my life.

I loved the way the clean clothes smelled fresh out of the wash, loved the way that having a batch of warm freshly dried clothes in a basket reminded me of my mom, how each time I reached in and picked up a piece to fold and put away so carefully in a drawer in my dresser I felt like a little version of her and it made me so happy, to know that I could do this, I could be okay, take good care of my things, of my life, of myself.

Quick Cycle. My freshman year of college I lived in a dorm with washing machines and dryers provided for each floor. Doing laundry became a social activity, one I couldn’t seem to do without friends. Without pizza. Without homework. Without taking over the entire laundry room with our stuff sometimes. Without talking and talking and talking. And in between all of it, taking turns to run back down the hall to shower and put on pajamas and then heading back in our slippers to wait for each of our separate loads to be done. I never wanted to go back to doing laundry alone.

Light. My sophomore year of college I married my high school sweetheart, my best friend, my greatest love. We rented a little one bedroom, one bathroom apartment, and had to use the laundry facilities located in a separate building not even visible from our section of the complex. I didn’t mind the inconvenience. We were married, and there was the proof, him walking beside me carrying our one laundry basket, with his clothes and my clothes, together, all jumbled up. I loved hearing his voice asking me if we should wash this or that separately, loved seeing his hands tenderly matching my socks. I would have gone back to washing everything by hand in the bathtub if I’d had to, if it meant I got to be the one who reached into that basket, and then piece by piece, carefully put away his clothes in his dresser drawer, the one right beside my own.

Large. And Extra Large. Sometime later, after lots of growing up, we would have our own washer and dryer, complete with a home attached, and shared with a precious baby boy and sixteen months later another precious baby boy, both of whom grew too quickly into precious little boys and then too quickly into precious big boys and then teenagers (who are precious in their own way). And with them grew the laundry. Baskets and baskets of it. Often overflowing. Sometimes folded in stacks on the dining room table and on the island in the kitchen. Sometimes scattered about on top of sofas and chairs, a t-shirt here, a hoodie there. Often under sofas and chairs, new black sock here, an old dinghy white sock with a hole in the toe there. Even behind sofas and chairs, usually more socks. Often outside and draped over the fence were a lot of t-shirts that didn’t even belong to us. Who went to Sea World on vacation? Who bought their kid a SpongeBob t-shirt? I didn’t know, but I’d just wash it all. Dry it all. Fold it all. Even bought an extra basket to store the extra clothes. Their friends always left something. And sometimes left with something that may or may not have been theirs. A lot of kids loved SpongeBob.

And I loved that our home was filled with a lot of kids.

(Even when they went to college and came back with girlfriends and they were all big enough to be doing their own laundry. I was just thankful to have them home.)

Timed. Our oldest son has just completed his first year internship at University Medical Center in New Orleans, and though he comes home as often as he can to visit, he no longer brings his clothes home to be washed. I think the white coat makes him feel too grown-up to have his momma help him with his laundry. Our youngest son just got married and they moved to North Carolina for grad school, so they’re too far for anyone to help them with anything for the next two years. They lived with us for a little awhile before they relocated, and I miss having our clothes all jumbled up together, proof that we are family. But it’s time. Time to go back to the lighter loads. The ones that are just mine and my high school sweetheart’s, my best friend’s, my greatest love’s. We’ve been married twenty-eight years now, which is more than 1400 weeks, and if I estimate about four loads of laundry per week, that’s over 5000 loads.

I wish my momma and daddy could have gotten that many.

I hope we more than double that.