I was having a particularly hectic week.  The first thing that always gets neglected when I’m busy is the pile of laundry.  I swear, it grows faster than the mold on leftovers.

My husband, bless his heart, tries to help.  I don’t know about in your house, but when he thinks he’s helping, it takes me twice as long to undo what he’s done.  (I secretly suspect that it is a male plot to get wives to stop asking for help.)  For instance, he’ll say, with a big proud look on his face, that he’s done three loads of clothes. 

What that means is he has taken three armloads of clothes, mixed flavors of course, washed them all in hot water, dried them on high heat, and dumped them into a basket.

By the time I find them, the T-shirts are wadded balls of hard cotton, tinted blue from being washed with blue jeans.  One white sock is sort of green because it was washed with green towels; the mate is pink. 

(Sweetheart, just stay away from the laundry.  Go eat some moldy leftovers.  Your plan worked.)

So, anyway, I somehow talked my 12-year-old daughter into doing some of the laundry.  She didn’t even whine, so it must have been because she wanted something, but I don’t remember.  I don’t remember lots of things.

She’s helped me before, but this was the first time she was on her own.  I carefully explained how to sort the clothes, what temperature to set it on, and how to add fabric softener.  When I walked in the door that evening, she announced, “I did all five loads!  And they’re folded and put away!”

I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.  After thanking her profusely, I said, “So I guess you didn’t run out of Tide?”

Her face fell.  “Tide?”