Lacey's Articles

Tonight my clothes told the story of my day. As soon as I got home, I stripped down and headed to the laundry room. My favorite khaki pants were in need of a serious stain sticking. On my left leg was a smudge of orange goo - from the three-year-old at church tonight who lovingly gave me a hug, with a cheese ball grasped tightly in his filthy fist. On the right cargo pocket a chocolate mark was barely visible. Earlier, I tried to enjoy a bowl of chocolate ice cream while holding my eight month-old-daughter, who also wanted to partake of the forbidden dessert.
You know, laundry reveals a lot about a person. My daughters’ days were pretty well outlined by their wardrobes as well. London’s miniature fleece parka was covered in a fine layer of dirt, the result of crawling across a not-cleaned-often-enough teachers’ lounge floor. She scooted around amusing herself with bits of dust while I enjoyed an adult conversation with my former co-workers, feeling both a desire to be where they were and a sympathy for the educational politics they had to endure. By the zipper of her little jacket was residue remaining from yesterday’s meal (or maybe the day before) that I apparently had not noticed for two days straight. Another testament to the keen observational skills of a sleepy mother. Finally, I whipped out the stain stick for a carrot-colored mark for which I could not even identify the origin.
My oldest daughter is infamous for turning her clothes inside out before stashing them in the laundry hamper. I have tried numerous tricks to encourage her to properly prepare her clothes for the wash. Lately I have succumbed to the old I’m-not-going-to-wash-this-if-it’s-inside-out routine. I guess it works, sort of. I only wash the clothes that are turned the correct way and her inside-out clothes stack up and overflow from the hamper and she still doesn’t really get the point. And when this laundry pile-up requires her to reach into her drawers’ depths for clothes not frequently worn, she still doesn’t get the point. Even as she is sporting a size-too-small shirt with old stains and a ripped pair of jeans with faded knees, she doesn’t see the big picture. Not exactly the most productive means of dealing with a problem.
Riley’s stains are garden-variety ten-year-old stains. Grass on the knees, dirt on the seat and the occasional lunch menu displayed on the front of her shirt. She wears spaghetti particularly well. I’ve learned to not even grow frustrated with stained clothing any longer. I just let the stain stick work its magic and figure that whatever doesn’t come out just gives the garment added character. I refuse to purchase new clothing for every stained item for a child who is perpetually going to be what she is - a little girl who cares more about adventure than apparel. Besides, that’s a trait I want to encourage. What I don’t want to encourage is a clothing-obsessed child who worries more about ring around the collar than ring around the rosy.
Now my husband, on the other hand, rarely requires the assistance of the stain stick - a tool essentially designed for messy individuals. He wears his clothes more carefully than the rest of us. A lint brush permanently resides in his Jeep and I have watched him carefully remove tiny hairs from his jacket. We try to let him walk in the door ahead of us wherever we go because he makes a better first impression - what with his clothes being all stain free and stuff. Generally, he only gets dirty at the appropriate times, not while eating a normal meal or playing a board game, but while participating in an athletic event or working outside in the yard. You know, times when it makes sense to get dirty and times when you are usually wearing clothing that you have planned to soil in some manner.
Clothes may tell a lot about a family and their individual personalities, but I think the bottom line here is more simple than that. . . I spend too much time in the laundry room.