My husband works 110 hours a week, and I work six, which means that I do all of the housework. I think this is pretty fair, because when he gets home I’d rather spend time with him than watch him do dishes (incorrectly) or clean sinks (sloppily).
So, I do the scrubbing, washing, soaking, mopping, sweeping, dusting, shining, polishing, and more. I don’t love cleaning, but it’s a necessity with a newly-mobile baby, two cats, and a hubby who works in a hospital. And I love the way the house looks after a good deep clean.
I loathe cleaning bathrooms, don’t mind dishes, and sort of enjoy vacuuming.
But I love laundry.
I don’t know what is wrong with me, but I find it seriously enjoyable. I love the act of sorting clothes into different baskets based on weight and color, dispensing detergent into the measuring cup, buying scented dryer sheets. I enjoy that laundry can be done between tasks and at one’s leisure, and when it piles up, it’s usually out of sight and out of mind.
I like, too, that everyone else in my house appreciates clean laundry as much as I do. My smallest cat makes a beeline for the dryer every time I open it, burying her little body in the hot laundry and closing her eyes in contentment. Ruthie loves to sit on the couch with me while I fold the warm clothes, pulling them out from around our kitty and fluffing them in Ruthie’s face before they land in the basket. Then, I plop Ruthie atop the freshly-folded clothes and carry them up the stairs.
When my hubby gets home from work, he always notices a clean towel or warm socks, and notes his appreciation. This is highly unusual because he probably wouldn’t notice if I didn’t clean the house for a year. (I came close to this record during my pregnancy, and he admitted that he did notice…but he was still too busy to do anything about it!)
Today, I’m still in Cincinnati visiting my family, and doing laundry was every bit as enjoyable away from home as it is in my own little house.