I swear I live in a frat house.

Sometimes I give myself parenting pats on the back. Sleep training? I was a ninja. The day my third and last child was able to wipe her own bottom without assistance? Good parenting day. Deciding that my children who are not Isabella need to pack their own lunches? Oh that was a very great parenting day.

And then I taught my children how to do laundry. I’m a true miracle worker, I said to myself. You see, as a person who has several bains of her existence, laundry was basically killing me.

My children have not been able to figure out that one can use a towel more than once. Just hang it up, I say.

My children have not been able to figure out that one can wear pajamas more than once. Just fold them up and put them on your bed, I say.

And my children have not been able to figure out that A HAMPER is not a storage place for clean clothing that they tried on and decided not to wear. Just put them in your drawers or closets, I say.

So what I’m telling you is that I do far more laundry than necessary for a family of five.

And now my children have the skills and expertise to do their own laundry, which I thought was going to be the solution to being The Laundress.

ONLY.

Every time I walk into the laundry room there are piles of wet laundry that Emily has removed from the washer so she can put in a load of leggings and bathing suits.

Every time I walk into the laundry room my once-half-empty hampers are filled to brim with maybepossiblyprobably clean laundry that has been removed from the dryer and mixed with dirty laundry so Josh can wash his football uniform. “I swear I washed that uniform skirt yesterday, I guess I need to wash it again because I’m not sure anymore and who wants to risk it.”

I think I sense a Laundress Strike coming on, just as soon as I eat my leftover cold pizza and drink my beer out of a red solo cup with my fellow frat boys.