Guest Post from Erika: Laundry as Love

Cats know nothing about laundry, except that it feels really good to sit on warm laundry that has just come out of the dryer, so I'm taking this one.

In many families (including mine), cooking is a way of expressing love. I've always known this, even if at first it was only on a subconscious level. But cooking has a mousy, less glamorous and not very much talked about younger sister — laundry. Now that I am a mother, I realize that doing laundry also can be an expression of love. When I look back to when I was in college (and, um, possibly for a few years after college) and I used to come home for Christmas or Spring break with two GIANT bags of laundry that my mother would do without complaint, it seems obvious.

When I first moved up to Portland to be with Martin, we lived for two weeks in a tiny apartment in the Northwest. I had nothing to do and knew nobody. And I certainly was not bringing in any income since I had yet to find a job. So we played house, and I took on the role of "Housewife". I did Martin's laundry, and it felt so intimate — like I was getting to know a whole different side of him somehow. I took great pleasure in separating out the lights and darks, hauling them down to the surprisingly clean and cheery basement, and folding the clean clothes ever so neatly for him.

After a few months of living together in a bigger place, when we both had 9-5 jobs, laundry and other chores became a source of contention. One morning at a terrible IHOP-style breakfast place we sat down and drew up a list that laid out The Division of Labor and whose job it was to do what. We tried various methods to share the odious task of folding laundry, none of which really worked. Occasionally our upstairs neighbor, who we shared a washer and dryer with, would actually fold Our laundry, which was always a pleasant and terribly guilt-inducing surprise.

When we moved to New York and revised our Division of Labor, Martin drew the Laundry card. No small feat in a 5-story walk-up with no facilities in the apartment. Heck, we didn't even have room for a kitchen in that apartment. It was rumored that we had access to the machines in the basement of the building next door, but we never used them. After an initial squeal of displeasure at how much it cost, Martin quickly succumbed to one of my favorite things about living in New York City — the Wash and Fold. When I lived in NYC in 2001-3, most of the time I either did not have a job or had a very low-paying job, but my one consistent luxury was the Wash and Fold. It is a beautiful thing. You haul your big heavy bag of soiled Whatever a block or maybe a block and a half, weigh it, and leave it there. When you pick up your clean laundry the next day, it is folded into perfect, stiff little squares and packed tightly into a plastic bag, inside your newly washed laundry bag. Virgo heaven. Or, if you were feeling REALLY decadent, you could have it delivered. I loved it.

One of the requirements for our apartment in San Francisco was laundry In The Apartment. Not in the Building, but walking distance from the laundry basket. We figured this was going to be mandatory with a new baby, and at that point we had visions of using the cloth diapers that you clean and wash yourself (ha!). Since the washer and dryer are located in Martin's (ahem) office, Martin had initial responsibility for the laundry. But since Martin is at work most days during the week and since I find myself VERY frequently needing clean blankets, changing pad covers, onesies and something from the very limited pool of the wardrobe that currently fits me, I have turned into The Laundress.

The funny thing is, I don't mind it. Watching the laundry pile up is like watching the tide come in...a natural, inevitable thing. When the basket is full, I actually take a little bit of pleasure in flushing it out, watching the tide recede, and gathering up a new basket of clean laundry. Folding is easier now too, since I simply don't bother folding Martin's button-down shirts, since those are just going to get hung up, or Peter's teeny tiny little t-shirts and onesies (sorry mom). Really, it doesn't make a difference to Peter. I do pair the eensy-weensy little socks though, because otherwise I would never be able to find a matching pair. I still fold Martin's collection of jeans, t-shirts, and undies and make neat little piles of them for him to put away.

It feels good, knowing that I am taking care of my family in this small way.