The Testosterones are in charge of folding their own clean clothes. It has proven to be too much work for me to figure out who wears what so I just let it go.
Of course the younger Testosterones rarely truly fold their gear, they do a more of a ‘ball and shove’ move to get the clothes into their drawers. This of course leads to their clothes looking as if they doubled as pajamas. And that wouldn’t necessarily be a big deal if they would actually use the iron and ironing board. It would appear they don’t mind walking out of the house looking as if no one loves them – no matter how much I warn, suggest, and yell…
All of this to say, once the Testosterones’ clothes come out of the dryer they are no longer my responsibility.
But today was different, my 12½ year-old and I spent some Mommy-Son time while we folded his clothes. And after consideration I think it’ll have to be the last time I do that. We shared pleasant conversation, laughs, and a few silly dance moves but I think our good moment made it worse for me.
There’s nothing like folding your child’s MENS XL undershirt and having a flashback of you folding his onesies. The memory made me happy and sad all at once. Happy because my first-born is standing
next to taller than me holding a thoughtful and cheerful conversation and sad because my first-born is standing next to taller than me holding a thoughtful and cheerful conversation.
Of course I’ve been watching him grow (he wears a 32x34), mature (he watches the news and uses the word ‘actually’ a lot), and stink from puberty (well…) still the ‘I remember-when-we-brought-you-home-from-the-hospital nostalgia can be sparked by the oddest experiences when you least expect it.
Though I did it a million times, there are three distinct times I remember folding his onesis:
- before he was born and we were preparing his nursery
- following the first load of laundry after he spit up, peed, and pooped on them
- when it was time to pack them away
And now here I am having a onsies moment about to bury my head in the laundry basket and bawl.
So, I’ll take a pass on any future opportunities to share his chores. My wistful MommyHeart can’t take it.
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