Laundry Envy

I’ve always been relaxed about laundry, and fairly happy with the results we get for the effort we expend. I know things don’t come out perfectly white, but hey, no one is dying, and we all look reasonably presentable the majority of the time.

My serenity was seriously shaken the other day.

I got a bag of hand-me-downs from a friend who has two little girls just older than mine. In this bag were half a dozen pairs of the most pristinely white socks I have ever seen outside of a Hanes sack. These were USED socks, people. They had the washed feeling and the little fuzzballs that come from being worn at least half a dozen times or so. But they were so white they positively glowed.

My own children’s socks, in comparison, look like they’ve been slogged through mud puddles and left to dry by a campfire. They’re relatively clean, I suppose– they don’t stink, and they’re soft, not stiff with grime. And they are cleaner than when they went into the wash. But they are woefully grey next to the pristine whiteness of my friend’s hand-me downs.

My inadequacy as a laundress assailed me, and I went a little wacky in my head for a few minutes. I imagined calling my friend to ask her sock-scrubbing secrets. I imagined going to the store and purchasing half a dozen new cleaning products to try. I imagined gathering every white sock in the house and making some kind of witches brew of toxic bleach and whatever else it takes, and FORCING those darned socks into whiteness.

In fact, I even took this picture, to show you all the appalling awfulness of my whites. About the time I saw the evidence on my computer screen I came to my senses.

Yeah, one sock is whiter.

But the difference is not nearly as extreme as I imagined in my head, and certainly not enough to go on a laundry rampage. After all, my friend has three kids. I have eight. One of the ways that I survive mothering 8 children and still have time to do things I enjoy is by LETTING GO of the things less important to me. And let’s face it: 364 days of the year, the shade of our socks matters to me not at all.

I took a deep breath. Mellow…..

Then I went and got that white shirt out of my daughter’s drawer– another item from the hand-me-down bag — and I put it on her. Glow while you can, shirt.

Fifteen minutes later– I kid you not– my two year old had managed to plaster Floam blobs all over the poor defenseless thing.

Whew. Glad we got that over with.

You’re livin’ at my house now, whitey.

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