A Week Measured in Love & Laundry

I used to be the laundry person in our relationship. I had organized our laundry baskets into a "light" and "dark." I would lug the dirty clothes down the stairs once the colors co-mingled and littered the floor.

And then I got pregnant with Spencer. And we lived in the house of precarious stairs. Suddenly, Dave became key laundry person. I have never taken back this responsibility. Nor have I really picked up another. I have nurtured a bit of guilt, but I have never vocalized it. My guilt has grown as our family has doubled and the laundry monster requires almost daily attention. Still, I remain mute.

I do fold and put away. Sometimes.

If you look right, you can see a photo-montage of Nora's outfits for the seventh week of her life. 18 pictures, but really 20 outfits. And that is just one kid, the one that does not count the dirt pile in the backyard as a favorite toy. (We won't even mention the number of shirts that I "milk through" in a night.) That's a whole lot of laundry.

Luckily, Dave rarely reads my blog. My guilt can remain a secret between me and you.