So, I come back from a lovely weekend away and the washing I took off the line on Thursday night is still on the sunroom table. Under the piles of washing that have come off the line since. I'm supposed to be feeding the child because I haven't really her seen her since Friday lunch time except for at breakfast today and a quick snatched cuddle when I got home. But I can't relax. I'm wearing the tension of an understaffed and busy day at work. I've been snarled at, argued with, buttered up and ignored. So I snap, you know doing the washing is only the first half of the job, I say. And if you don't sort it when it comes off the line, it lies around with wet patches and has to be washed again. You have to keep on top of it, keep moving it through, fold every day. He says, but nobody ever taught me how to do the folding, you're better at it than I am. I say, well, I'm telling you now.
I'm flying, I'm multitasking and I'm mad. I really need to breathe.
You see, he's done well. Grace is happy. The house isn't wrecked. I got to go away relatively guilt free and I had a lovely time. Lots of time to talk and think and crochet on the couch. There was very little domestic activity on my part. Just one meal and one set of dishes. And an empty clothes line, with pegs casting shadows in the pale morning sun.
But the folding gets me every time. I planned to do it before I went, but the day just ran out of hours. So I left it. Hoping that it would be done and dusted on my return. Maybe next time?