I’m drawing the line.
Right there. In the middle of the socks and underwear. You might need to push those jeans out of the way to see it.
Because I’ve had it. Had. It. With my girls refusing to put away their laundry. I don’t make them wash it (yet). I don’t even make them fold it. I just ask that they take the folded piles I lay on their beds – folded in stacks according to where they are put away even – and put them where they belong. And yet, their floor is covered in clothes.
I have asked nicely. I have cleaned it all to give them a fresh start. I have bagged clothes on the floor and donated them to Goodwill (oh yes I have). I have threatened. I have yelled. I have expressed extreme disgust.
And the clothes remain all over the floor.
I think it’s time for drastic measures. I will give them one warning of this new plan of mine – not because I think it will do any good but because my children like to be forewarned. The warning? I’m going on a laundry strike. If those damn clothes aren’t put away where they belong then I’m done washing them and drying them and folding them and carrying them to their room and laying them out. They want their clothes to belong on the floor? Then that’s where they can stay. And when they ask me where their uniform is or want to know when their favorite shirt will be cleaned I will point at the floor – like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come I will point in silent fury and walk away.
And so laundry becomes the current battle in the long-waged war against raising children who are helpless and think it’s acceptable to treat their mother like a servant.