When a Mama is responsible for doing the family laundry 90% of the time, it is that Mama’s privilege to set forth certain rules and regulations–a laundry policy or manifesto, if you will.
Heretofore this Mama’s policy has read something like this:
*sort your own clothes: whites, jeans, colors
*mark any stains with a clothespin
*I don’t do pockets—any money or other valuables making their way into the laundry become mine when the washer or dryer spits them out. All other items find a temporary home on the windowsill where their owners can claim them, or not . . . I’ll throw it all out in a month or so.
So, picture it: Tuesday–a long weekend’s worth of laundry is taunting me and I decide to tackle it right away. Two loads in, I open the washer to transfer the wet clothes to the dryer and come face to face with:
Yes, I said, “worms.”
Worm number 2 emerged from the washer seconds after worm number 1 alive and kickin’ . . . you see, we’d been fishing over the long weekend, and someone (who shall remain nameless) had forgotten to remove their bait from their shirt pocket. Did I mention that three boys live at my house? Just sayin’.
In the spirit of honesty, I must admit that I was more than a little steamed. I’ve seen a lot of things come through my washer: contact lenses, empty bullet casings, gum, combs—but never live animals.
I’ve been working on “seeing the positive, not dwelling on the negative” a lot lately, and by the time I returned from releasing the tortured wigglers to the relative peace of the garden, I’d begun to see the humor in the situation—for example, the fact that it was blogworthy.
As I congratulated myself on turning my attitude around I returned to the laundry room to pick up my basket of folding. Noticing a wayward still-damp sock that had missed the dryer, I opened the door to throw it in. You guessed it—out popped worm #3. Barely alive after 2 minutes in the dryer.
A careful search of the remaining dryer load netted no new worms.
At this point I composed an addendum to my laundry policy:
*In the event that any form of animal life (dead or alive) makes its way into the washer and/or dryer on this Mama’s watch, it will serve to invoke an immediate and irreversible laundry strike on her part for one month.
8:30 p.m. later that day. I head down the darkened hall to tell the kiddos goodnight, traveling the path that finished laundry follows to its respective owners’ rooms.
My bare foot hits something cold and spaghetti-like.
Worm Number 4 has met its Maker.
I rest my case.