Once I was in a play called ‘The Laundry Girls’. As you might imagine, it was about a group of girls who worked in a laundry. Albeit a Victorian one. Fastforward to my life today and laundry features more than I should like. Without the girly chat. So, call me demented and send me to hell but I want to stand up and say ‘my name is mothergoat and my life is powerless to the demented demon of never ending laundry’. But it’s the socks wot really get me.
Obsessed? No! Possessed? Perhaps. I don't like to count the number of socks though I know without fail there's always at least 7 x 4 pairs of socks, each and every week. That’s 56 individuals at the lowest. Add to that a smattering of sports socks, (when Teenboy hasn’t fired the filthy things to rarely explored spaces), and evenings out, plus tights, leggings and other smalls and we’re way closer to a ton than is decent.
I've decided life is simply too short to sort socks. Luckily my dustbin lids like wearing odd socks. Teengirl wears the first socks she finds. Teenboy is size 9. The littleun a teensie size 1. Yet swap and share and make do is what they have to do. I throw clean socks in a drawer in the nativity room. Then it’s everyman for himself. I used to care, because I used to care whether my parenting skills were judged on the state of my children’s socks. I care no more.
Way back when I had only one cute little baby, family socks were easy and obvious to sort, kindly aided by hired help. Those were the days when I worked with a guy who happily joined a ready-made family. I thought him a tad dictatorial as he demanded a designated sock colour for each family member. Now I think he was on to something.
Throw into the mix the moulting mutt. She likes to retrieve the odd sock, carry it about for a while, bury a few in the garden, tear some apart in her bed, or tend to others as if they were babies, all the while sprinkling them in her shedding coat.
I have tried to train the dog to retrieve and deposit sock missiles in the laundry bin.
I’m ever hopeful.