My 11-year old son recently returned from a week-long camp. It was his first time away from home for more than a few days and the camp had made a packing list that essentially emptied out his drawers. While I was happy to have Andy back home, I also saw that if I didn’t teach him about doing laundry, I would be doing his laundry for years to come. Not just after camp, but as he got older, during college breaks and traveling through town on his way to someplace else.
It’s easy to forget what we know. Andy readily accepted the responsibility of washing what he had taken to camp. He put the first batch in by himself. He had no concept of leaving space for water and detergent and room for a bit of movement during the wash cycle. The first batch consisted of a twin size quilt, flat sheet, fitted sheet, numerous shirts, shorts, pants, three towels, socks, and last but not least, a down pillow. I suppose even geese deserve a washing at least once in their lives.
“Uh, let’s take out a few things before we start. It’s okay to have a full load, but there’s got to be enough room for the clothes to swish around in there.”
I took out the down pillow, quilt, and sheets. Andy’s eyes lit up when I told him about not putting pillows in the washer and he nodded with newfound knowledge. So far, so good.
Then came the detergent. “Okay, put one scoop in.”
Andy was about to pour it in the cup-like holder in the middle of the stem. “Hold on. It goes around the stem, onto the clothes.”
I’ve often wondered what that cup is for. Probably something that I’ve crossed off as unnecessary in my laundry protocol (e.g., bleach, fabric softener). I lifted the cup out of its holder, only to find gray scum underneath. “Yeah, well, I don’t know what this thing is for, but we’ll just leave it alone.”
I don’t separate out whites from darks from colors. Somewhere in my teen years, I got lazy and my mother never bothered to tell me that my whites would soon become grays.
“Okay, you want to use warm with cold. Don’t use hot with cold unless you have all whites. Why would that be?”
He looked at me, searching his memory for any television commercials that might have explained this point. “Because, um, because, um, it, …..bleeds!” Bingo. Not that it would bother him all that much but I figure his future spouse would thank me someday.
On to the dryer. I had Andy empty out the clothes from a previous load, being careful not to drop anything in his own dirty pile on the floor. His small body all but disappeared inside the dryer. For a fleeting second, I had an image of the British comedy, “Mr. Bean,” where the main character ends up locked in the dryer at a laundromat, his face spinning round and round in the window. Who says you can’t have fun doing the laundry?
“Let me show you the lint filter. Clean it out before every load.” I rolled up the wad of lint, like a dirtier version of cotton candy and gave it to him to deposit in the trash can.
“Won’t the clothes disappear at some point, Mom?”
“Whatta ya mean?”
“Well, lint comes from the clothes, right?”
“Yes.” I could see where he was headed. He was taking this fact to its logical conclusion if we were to dry the same clothes everyday, several times a day, for a decade. It was similar to the logic behind washing hair a little too often, until there was nothing left but an eight ball of a head.
“I see what you are saying. Yeah, I guess you’re right. It would disappear. Only I think we would stop washing the clothes after it got too many holes.” Come to think of it, both my sons had baby blankets that shrank with each washing until they were little more than tattered rags, loved only like a child could love a blankey. Andy wasn’t so far off after all.
Andy proceeded to wash the next three loads of laundry. Everything worked fine. Colors didn’t bleed and no clothes disappeared. Okay, it may be time to teach him how to drive himself to school.