A few weeks ago, my daughter came home in some odd-fitting uniform slacks.
Honestly, though, as a not-so-terribly-observant-about-such-things mother, it didn’t really register until she handed me a plastic shopping bag full of clothes to wash.
Then she proceeded to tell me how there had been an unfortunate accident at school. I knew that (thankfully) it wasn’t that kind of accident since this is my child who was potty-trained more than five years ago after ONE accident. Seriously. She couldn’t/can’t handle even slightly damp clothes.
No, she had fallen/sat/swished by a puddle or something.
Anyway, my rule-following girl proceeded to tell me the nurse’s instructions about how we needed to bring back the borrowed clothes the following Monday after we washed them.
And I said, “Tell ’em Mama does laundry on Mondays.” Maybe not with quite the twang I hear in my head when writing it, but that’s what I said.
And I wasn’t even lying.
I do. I do laundry on Mondays. It was a strange/nice/odd feeling to say it with such confidence, knowing that on Monday, those clothes would get washed along with every other item of clothing in the house.
Now remembering to return the clothes? That’s a different story.