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when the laundry is done

When the laundry is done, I feel all is right in my domestic world. When the laundry is done, I feel like I can breathe.  When the laundry is done, I am proud that I have conquered such a monumental task.  When the laundry is done, I feel as if I can do anything!

And then it happens.

It happens every time.  As I happily stuff the dryer with what I think is the very last load of laundry, singing while I clean out the lint trap, closing that dryer door with a spring in my step and a smug smirk on my face, feeling like I just climbed Mt. Everest, that happy feeling I had just a mere 23 seconds ago is gone.


Like a Pavlovs’ dog, after I close that dryer door the realization hits me: I have to fold and put away all these fricking clothes.  The feelings of anger, angst and being overwhelmed with life invade me like ants on a sticky ice pop stuck to the concrete on a hot summer day – all because of the laundry.

Because … the laundry is NEVER done.


The laundry never stops, just like Newman and the mail  “it just keeps coming and coming, there is never a let up, it’s relentless”.

When I think I am done, more laundry comes. More socks. More dirty boy underwear. More towels. More sheets. More unbelievable disgusting soaking wet gym clothes from my husband.

More laundry.

It doesn’t matter if you’re a table of one or fifty-one, the laundry continues for everyone; the only difference is the reprieve you get between loads – it could be a day or two weeks. You can bet your  ass, they’ll always be laundry!LAundryJust a week ago I was doing laundry three times a day because I only had four pairs of acceptable underwear to don. Yes, four pairs. Sure, I had my ‘period panties’ but those don’t count, neither did the maternity underwear I had stored in my drawer for eight years. You read that right, underwear sat in the undie drawer for eight years. I only wore them when I was completely and utterly desperate. Like twice a year desperate when I was too lazy to actually do the laundry for ONE day.

Silly me to think that buying $84 worth of new underwear would help my never-ending laundry situation, how naïve.  As much as I love that my lady bits are secure and comfortable I am still doing laundry twice a day.

Colors. Whites. Dryer Sheets. Spray & Wash.  Bleach.  Fold put away. Fold put away. Fold let the laundry sit in the basket for a week, or maybe two. Don’t you dare judge me.

Load after load after load.  Rinse and repeat.

The laundry never ends.  When is it EVER done?

So what does one do? Well, I have a few ideas:

  • Embrace the suck cause summer is coming, I mean the towels alone can make anyone go postal.
  • Throw money at the problem. Get your laundry done by someone else. I mean, have you’ve ever done this? A good service can fold your undies the size of a quarter (no joke!), it’s a beautiful thing!
  • Get your significant other to do it. Perfect solution, mine does pitch in a lot, however, with a fireman’s schedule, the laundry can’t stop, we will drown in laundry if I let it go for 48 hours.
  • Teach your children or dog how-to do the laundry.

The last option is my only option.  My sons have been folding and putting away the laundry for well over six months; two weeks ago I taught the 13 year old how to actually do a load of laundry. SCORE!

Now, I am not that foolish to think that this will give me full clemency from doing the laundry, but it will give me somewhat of a break, teach my kids that there are no free rides in life, and I have achieved something great – I gave myself a gift that will keep on giving (hopefully this gift will be bestowed on their significant others as well) the gift that they and they alone can and will wash their own disgusting underwear and socks.

Problem solved.

Now beer me!


Posted in That's Life, Uncategorized Tagged with: , , ,

What Every Mom Wants for Mother’s Day


Time and Sleep.

Not too much to ask for… right?

If I had to guess, I’d say 99.9% of Moms are on board with this.


Personally, I want to time stand fucking still, so I have enough time to:

  • Go to the bathroom and shower alone with the door open (if I choose) and not have anyone walk in.
  • To drink that cup of coffee, hell sangria without having to explain to anyone that it’s “mommy’s drink”.
  • To actually go on a date with my husband and enjoy each other’s company – yes I married my husband a person that I want to “spend” the rest of my life with (on most days) but never ever see!
  •  I want enough time to get to my son’s baseball or soccer games and literally watch a game from start to finish.
  • I want time to stand still so these children of mine can just stop growing up – I have a 10 year old, how the hell did that happen?
  •  I want enough time in a day to actually talk on the phone without being in the car (before you get on my back – blue tooth rocks!) rushing to the next activity or missing my exit cause I’ve been chatting too much, or hell driving around in circles talking because I know the minute I step in the door all bets are off.
  •  And if time can stand still so I can make plans with my friends, not cancel and reschedule, and reschedule again, that would be great! Oh and can it stand still long enough so that when we finally get out we can be out all night and not have to worry getting home for the sitter!

And I want Sleep.


Fucking SLEEP.

That needs no interpretation. AT. ALL.






Posted in The Little Buggers, Uncategorized Tagged with: , , , , , ,

A Mom’s Not So Proud Moment

kid puddle


It was a misty persistent rain falling on our heads as my sons and I departed from swim practice. It was  after 9:00 p.m. I was exhausted, it was a long day of work and I was spent after spending an hour and half in a pool coaching sixteen swimmers ranging in age from six to eight.

As we were making our way to the car, we literally had to avoid many many puddles, evidence that it must have poured as we were in the steamy hot suffocating pool.  Boys, hell really anyone no matter the age cannot resist puddles.  Who really can?  They can be fun. Can being the operative word.  When you’re exhausted, already wet and just want to get home to jump into your comfy cozies, not so much fun.

Before I could blurt out what I was thinking: Don’t you dare go near those puddles!  my oldest son leaped like a frog and landed two feet in an enormous puddle that splashed me from head-to-toe.

Head-to-fricking- toe.

Without thinking I yelled “You’re an asshole!”

The grimy street water dripped down my hair,  face and my jacket but what was worse was the feeling of pure disgust that washed over me.

I just called my 9 year old an asshole.  What kind of animal am I?

I gingerly turned my head thankful to find that we were alone; I then peered over my left shoulder to face the music and look at my son square in the eye. I really thought I would find him sobbing, ya see my eldest is extremely sensitive (like his mom, however this was clearly not my most sensitive moment.) I was afraid I damaged him more and this would be the focus of  yet another therapy session. Before our eyes formally met I heard belly laughing from him and my six year old – I was relieved.  We continued to the car, me still mortified  hanging my head as I sulked and slid into the drivers seat very wet and very embarrassed of myself.

Before I started the car I immediately texted my sister:  “I just called my son an asshole”.    I relayed the story as fast as my big thumbs would allow and within minutes I had a plan to try and rectify this situation – I took the advice of my sister – I was to apologize to my son and let him know that I didn’t think he was an asshole but that his actions well were well: ‘asshole-ish’.  I also, tried to explain what ‘asshole’ means, it seemed that my explanation fell as flat as my Jewish mans ass.

As I drove out of the parking lot, I started my song and dance:  I apologized profusely, I went into how I was tired, how I shouldn’t have reacted that way, that we really need to think before we speak because we can hurt people’s feelings, and reiterated how deeply sorry I was for calling him that and it was really his behavior that I was referring to.

The car went silent. A deafening and scary silence.  I lost him. I talked too much. He hates me. I convinced myself that this would be the focus of his very first therapy session. Feeling terrible, I continued to navigate the dark streets unsure if I should turn on the radio to break the silence when my nine year old blurted out:

“My second grade teacher was an asshole”

Wow. I sat there stunned and thought to myself –“well, I guess my explanation was accurate.”




Posted in deanna verbouwens, The Little Buggers Tagged with: , , , ,