The Jennings Journal

It's laundry day.

Again.

When we lived in our apartment in Grand Island I rather enjoyed doing laundry. Our washer and dryer were very conveniently located in a closet right next to our bedroom. I only had to carry the laundry six feet and wa-la it was put away. I did a load or two every day so I never got behind, and it never was a burden at all.

Where we currently live our laundry room is upstairs, through two doors, half-way down the garage and around the corner. I'm very thankful for our washer and dryer because I know a lot of people have to haul their laundry to laundromats; but nonetheless, laundry is no longer easy or convenient for me. There is the issue of carrying it up and down the stairs, not being able to hear when the dryer is done, and having to be properly dressed on the chance of encountering our landlord in the garage (no quick laundry run in pajamas right before bed). Add in the extremely attached 10-month-old, who not only cries the second I'm out of his sight, but is also capable of climbing the two flights of linoleum-covered steps to follow me, and this laundry-thing gets difficult, to say the least.

But the worst part about laundry? It's never completely done. Today I did six loads and they're all folded and ready to be put away. I was feeling proud of myself until I noticed a very dirty kitchen towel hanging on the stove. I got Wesley up from his nap and had to change his banana-covered shirt so when I took him outside the dog didn't devour him for an afternoon snack. And, of course, as I'm sitting here thinking about the never-ending task of laundry, I am wearing clothes. And so is my husband. Which means all of the laundry isn't done for the day. I'll no sooner have my six loads in drawers and there will be another one in the hamper.

I've thought about this quite a bit and come up with a common sense solution to the problem: everyone at my house needs to go naked for one day every week so I can get every scrap of laundry done and cross that task off my list. I'm not sure Warren will agree with me (he does ride horses all day every day), but I may try to convince him that my idea is brilliant, if not necessary.

The other option is that I would have to leave a permanent place on my list for laundry, and that's disheartening altogether.

Or, I could have a daughter with the intention of making her laundry-maid. But that might be flirting with child labor laws and that would be illegal.

O, the quandary...

When I was a kid I had seventeen dolls. They were all named...with middle names. They had birth certificates. The oldest was three-years-old and I was proud of the fact that in the make-believe world of playing "house," I had birthed and adopted seventeen children within three years. The cut out magazine picture of their dad (who I think was actually a movie star) sat on the nightstand watching over the children during my endless hours of taking care of them. The poor man was off to war while I was dutifully caring for our infantile mob at home.

Lacey and I slept with almost all our dolls every night (she had sixteen of her own). Contrary to what you would think about dolls being soft sleeping pals, I lost quite a bit of sleep trying to get all seventeen to stay on the twin size bunk bed. But I didn't care...I was living the dream in perfect bliss and couldn't help but wishfully glance at the doll isle every time we went to the store, wishing Mom and Dad would allow me to adopt another one.

When I think about myself as a little girl, waking up every morning with excitement to care for my seventeen children, I don't think my seven-year-old mind would've pictured me today. Right now I'm sitting in my little apartment living room with my son cruising everywhere, picking up remnants of supper from under his booster chair, singing while he strums my guitar, and crawling toward the door babbling "da-da" over and over. Add another sixteen kids and that sounds about like my childhood dream.

But earlier, we went to town and I lost Wesley's binky in the grocery store and didn't realize it until he had downed a graham cracker and was ready to go to sleep a mile later. He had a very loud, persistent opinion about the lost binky for the rest of the forty-five mile drive home. This evening he napped at 5:00 pm, which totally threw off his bedtime. We went out to supper and Wesley showed up barefoot with banana pieces smeared inside his vest. Not to worry; I am an attentive enough mother to have his shoes in my purse...they are the black Robeez that I was so excited to find at a consignment store, only to bring them home and realize the boys loafers are actually girls ballerina shoes. He has Tupperware strewn all over the house. The groceries I bought this afternoon are still waiting to be put in the cupboard. His blanket smells like the barn. Our pickup hasn't been cleaned in a month and it drove Warren crazy today so we finally emptied it out. And sometime after our little guy goes to bed tonight, in the wee morning hours, this idealist mother will respond to his cries and bring him to bed with her...even though the books say not to.

When I was seven I would draw pictures of my house when I grew up. All seventeen of my dolls would sit quietly beside me while I fashioned a mansion with five stories, twelve bedrooms and seventeen smiling children playing in a spotless environment. Twenty years later I'm sitting in a five hundred square foot apartment trying to figure out where to put the baby clothes, the groceries, the linens and the paperwork. If you were to visit our house in about an hour you would see Warren and I whisperingly giggle as we transport the pack-n-play with the sleeping baby in it from the bedroom to the living room. Our little man will likely pop his eyes open at the same moment we run into the narrow door frame and we'll say "better luck next time," for the hundredth time.

I'm not sure my life looks like the ideal that my seven-year-old mind drew up. I don't have time to take long showers and style my hair every morning. I don't take my son on a nature walk to teach him the scientific names of plants and the Latin names of animals every day. I don't have a house big enough to sleep seventeen children -- or hardly two, for that matter.

If you're thinking this is a disappointment to me, you obviously haven't spent any time in my little five hundred square foot apartment with dishes in the sink, dust on all the shelves and a printer that is always glitching because the only place to put it is on the floor and Wesley thinks it's the greatest jungle gym ever. If you were here with me you would know how full of life and joy this place is. You would giggle when you slid across the floor on a Tupperware lid and almost did the splits. You would feel proud of the fancy new pies I've learned to make and dirtied almost every dish I own because of it. You wouldn't mind the clumps of dirt on the floor or the wet jeans on the landing because of the cheerful "I love this life!" you would hear from my husband when he walks in, bringing arena sand and horse manure with him. You would witness the dream my seven-year-old mind couldn't have even thought up...a dream so incomparably better than having seventeen children in a spotless mansion with their movie star father off at war.

You would witness real life. The good, messy, living, breathing stuff of life. The ideal-crashing baby sleeping with us at night; the messy truck because we just got back from a wonderful trip to Branson; the sacrifice of living in a tiny apartment to spend all our time together, investing in what really matters to us.

It's highly doubtful that I'll ever have seventeen kids. I'm not holding my breath for a mansion, either. But that little seven-year-old girl's dream?

Ridiculously insignificant compared to reality.