As fellow mama warriors in the fight against time, I am sure you are familiar with both the term, and the permanent condition within parenting, known as “The Laundry List”. It is that seemingly endless, ever-evolving list of responsibilities, that if you ever actually had the time to write down in its entirety, would likely result in a reenactment of that classic scene of opening up a scroll, only to have it tumble to the ground as it unfolds, cascading across the length of the room. I know that I personally have an entire spreadsheet devoted to my to-do list, broken down into all of my wishful intentions: “Day Job”, “Night Job”, “School”, “Home “, “Basic Hygiene.” But these, of course, are just dreams. Then there is my active laundry list, broken down into “TODAY”, “RIGHT NOW”, and “TOO LATE/APOLOGIZE”. I don’t know why I even make it. Nothing taunts me and makes me feel more defeated than that simple little .xls file. And yet, there it is, front and center on my desk top, printed copy in my purse, posted on the wall. It is like that skinny pic you post on your fridge that acts as both motivation and torture, as you repeatedly compare what could be (if I only an extra 24 hours in each day), to what actually is (I’ll never again have an extra 24 seconds).

However, this wretched reminder of what you have not, and may likely never, accomplish is actually not my topic today. No, it is the actual laundry that never makes it to your laundry list that is worthy of a confession today. You see, the clothing crisis in my house is actually representative of the state of my overall laundry list. Once upon a time, many children ago, I had a “Laundry Day”. A day when I did ALL of the laundry. A day I folded the laundry. A day I put the laundry away. A day I can now barely remember. Now our “Laundry Day” is every day. It is a laundry mountain piled high on our bed, that my children will inevitably dog pile on, as if it is the neglected child’s version of frolicking through fall leaves. It is the laundry that unintentionally sits in the washer for an hour, or two, or ten hours too long because it was trumped by a battle cry between siblings heard off in the distance, or the splash of another lost shoe found in the toilet, or whatever other magical mischief my children can conger up to prevent that laundry list from ever decreasing, to that point where not even a box of sweet-smelling dryer sheets will save the sacrificed shirts. It is those occasional days when I glare at those laundry baskets as if they were laughing at my failures, and I dare to attempt the impossible, spending an entire 24 hours in a Tide of Bounce, determined to look down and once again see the bottom of the basket that has been missing from my life for so many years. And it is the inevitable defeat of this dream, as my kiddos cluelessly toss their gooey little garments into the illusive basket bottom just as I pull out that final load, which reminds me why I gave up on my dream to begin with.

And then of course, there is the issue with socks. In those rare moments when I come close to achieving the dream, there are always those socks. The lonely little singles you can’t just throw away (I am Frugal McDougal after all). And it is not as if it is just 1 or 2. We’re talking double-digit, people. However, determined to dream, I search high and low for their mysterious mates in vain, which have somehow been sucked up by the black hole that is my home. Inevitably, they will sit there at the bottom of the basket, representative of that permanent layer that will always remain between me and success…my laundry list’s victory over me.