Amanda Amanda is a married 30-something with three kids. She previously worked full-time as a clinical social worker in a homeless shelter for young mothers. She earned her masters degree while commuting to school and learned to share parenting and conflicting parenting styles with her husband. Now she is learning to manage her career, marriage, kids, and personal time. Amanda is also a writer, a continuously-trying-to-start-again runner, reader, cook, novice pianist, terrible housekeeper, and amateur juggler. She hates laundry. Contact Amanda by emailing

Laundry, it’s all I seem to see. Vast swaths of it stretching from the laundry room (where it should stay) out into the kitchen, spilling into the living room and strewn like fall leaves down the hallway toward the children’s rooms. Laundry … the bane of my existence, the boulder to my Sisyphus, motherhood’s special circle in hell.

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In my home, we have what is lovingly, laughingly, disturbingly called Mt. Laundry. It resides in my living room, a constant pile of clean clothes. Some days I get it under control and it disappears for a few hours, until the next load comes along. At other times it appears to be made up of EVERY SINGLE ITEM OF POSSIBLE LAUNDRY in my home. The dressers are empty, the kids are drying themselves with bath mats, and I use my t-shirt to wipe my hands when cooking. The mountain is such a constant that when my family comes over and it’s not there, someone HAS to comment on it.

See, I have three children and a husband who detests doing laundry. The man lives out of his baskets and is utterly unfazed and unfrazzled by it sitting around in baskets. The kids seemingly believe laundry is done by magic fairies and once it’s out of the dresser or closet it is dirty and must be washed again. My son once, after I decided he was a big boy and could put his own clothes away, “lost” a clean basket of laundry in his room. A week later I saw him pushing this same basket back towards the laundry room, assuming it was now dirty. I was apoplectic (which, I’m not even 100% sure what it means but I know I felt it) and had to slowly count to 100 to keep from screaming. I then performed a miracle and calmly told the boy to turn around and put the basket of CLEAN clothes away in his dresser.

And ask myself WHY? Why me? Why is it constant? Is nudity truly so bad? Maybe we should try moving to a nudist colony? How long before something is really dirty? What does dirty even mean? What does clean mean in a home with three young children? Have my children and the never ending story of laundry finally driven me bonkers? What are some things I can do to help the situation in my home?

Laundry Situation. I could…

Accept it. I could simply accept the never ending stream of dirty clothes. The unending cycle of clean, put away, dirty, wash, dry, fold, put away, throw on floor because it’s not what I was looking for, step on it repeatedly, call it dirty, wash, repeat.

Embrace it. I could embrace laundry. Revel in the simpleness of cleaning and appreciate my family needing me in this special way. Excuse me, I snorted so hard laughing at even typing that and passed out … where was I?

HIDE IT. This is my favorite. Its what we all do when fancy visitors or guests come to our home, right? If it’s your best friend or sister you leave it, or throw a blanket over it. But I could just buy a pretty throw and keep it on top of Mt Laundry.

Whatever I do, this mountain will exist for the next 15 or so years and when it’s finally gone, despite what everyone says, I will NOT miss it. I won’t. I’ll miss lots of things about my children’s childhoods, but I can guarantee I won’t miss laundry. Besides, they’ll still be bringing laundry over for visits in college and then even into adulthood when their own washer or dryer breaks down. As I said, it will never end.

Three things in life are certain, death, taxes and laundry.


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