Last Monday, Hubby was sick. Sick enough to be home, but not flat-on-his-back-in-bed sick.
I spent the day up at the church working on things for the Christmas show.
When I finally came home . . . I saw that the laundry was done.
Like . . . all the way.
Every single pile.
Photo Credit: Tyne & Wear Archives & Museums
Laundry Day had happened, even though I wasn’t home to make it happen.
It’s not that Hubby suddenly learned to do laundry. He was quite good at it when we got married. But for all his years as a bachelor, he only ever had to do a load here and there since he had his work clothes dry cleaned.
So when he married the World’s Most Random and Haphazard Housekeeper, his attempts at helping (by doing a load of desperately needed undies here and there) barely made a dent in our ever-growing and over-clothed family’s laundry pile.
It never would have occurred to either one of us to spend a sick day doing all the laundry in the house.
But, I am happy to say that the existence of Laundry Day has changed that. He knows that if clothes are going to be washed, they’ll be washed on Monday.
He helps sort (and sometimes gets the sorting started) on Sunday evenings.
He was always willing to help. He even wanted to. But the fact that there was no rhyme or reason to how I did any household task made it almost impossible.
It’s like an escalator. You watch it for a moment and figure out how it works. You see the speed and you know when the next step is coming so you can hop on.
But if the escalator went really slow, then crazy-fast . . . then stopped completely for who-knows-how-long only to start up again with a jerk . . . you’d be less likely to step right on.
Do you see what I mean? By me having routines, he can jump in on those routines.
When there were only Random Acts of Cleaning in this house, it kind of felt like there was no point to try to contribute.