When I was growing up, folding laundry was in my chores lineup from the time I started middle school, I think. I imagine it probably coincided with the time I started wearing bras, and my dad chose to nope right out of folding clothes that weren’t his and Mom’s as a result. So it’s something I’ve been really familiar with for a number of years.
Combine that with my experience training other people how to fold for floor displays in retail, and you could say I’m something of an expert.
And yet, I hate it. With a passion.
Not the act of folding itself. That can be a little meditative in the right settings.
The place where it becomes tedious in the Leesmann house is when it comes to putting the clothes away. Seriously, with how difficult it can be to convince the boys (all ages here) to do this, you’d think I was torturing them.
As a result, I’ve started taking my time folding clothes. If they’re just going to live in stacked piles, why bother folding at all? That is until it just gets to be too much and my anxiety kicks in, of course.
‘Mom, do you know where my shorts are?’
Caiden hollers this at me almost daily. And my answer hardly ever changes.
“Look in the laundry room.”
This almost always results in him whining about not finding anything, to which I have to tell him to dig through the pile. The same way I would have to.
Of course, if they would put clothes away then I could change my answer so it was more along the lines of, “No, but if you look in your dresser you’ll find which drawer they’re in.”
In the meantime, I’m going to finish up this time’s mountain (slowly but surely) and put the damn clothes away myself. If they can’t find them, well, maybe they should put it in a place that makes sense to them.