We did a very big wash on Friday. Which my mum helped me hang out before we went to see Betty in hospital. With direction from me as to what sections of the line to hang the various bits of washing in. To make bringing it in easier, so I have a layered basket that I don't have to sort before I fold. Mind you, G hung the nappies wherever he could find the space which meant that in order to maintain my compulsive stratification of the washing basket some running sround the line in the first part of the bringing in was necessary. Interupted by calls to come and inspect and consult on his latest project, the restoration of my mum's childhood dollshouse. I am so in demand.
As I slept in this morning and there was shopping to be done, and I needed a walk, this mountain was still staring me in the face at 6.20pm. The chances of getting through it in time to watch Gardening Australia at 6.30pm were slim, even with the assistance of my little helper. So I listened on the big sound and folded fast. Remembering holidays in Port Moresby when I was at high school and the clean washing would arrive from the laundry underneath the house to be placed in neat folded piles on our beds. How my mother must have loved having household staff. Even if there was something dodgy about it. Not that it's bad to pay others to do your housework. I'm thinking more about class, race and issues of post colonialism. About a town where working for an expat could mean sending your child to school and having somewhere to live.
I suggested to G that we abandoned folding as a task and just kept our clothing in big baskets. He thought that was a great idea. But the idea of not having matching socks or have having to fold a nappy and deal with a writhing poopy two year old is just too much to bear. I like my washing folded and put away. It makes me feel in control of things when it's done. I'm wondering how long before Grace will be able to take over?
Oh I know, probably not until she's all grown up and ready to leave home. Sigh.
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