This weekend, in a fit of productivity, I folded about 17 loads of laundry. You followed me from laundry room to living room, up the stairs and back down again 412 times. I admire and appreciate your loyalty.
You did not follow me upstairs on trip number 413, though. I left you in the basement for 32 seconds while I took another load of folded laundry upstairs and placed it lovingly on my bed. I hate laundry.
When I returned 32.5 seconds later, I found you STANDING IN a full laundry basket of folded clothes. Your head was bent with concentration. One chubby hand steadied you while the other hurled laundry over your head as fast as baby physics allowed. You did not even see me standing there.
One of your pitches landed a pair of undies behind the sectional couch against the wall. I began to retrieve your homeruns- may I say you have an incredible arm for a 13 month-old? You do. I remembered the Over-the-Sectional line drive and leaned over the back corner of the couch to grab it- do a job and do it all the way, I say.
I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if there wasn’t an ENTIRE LOAD OF WHITE LAUNDRY, partially folded, hidden back there along with three legos and a babydoll. Obviously, today was not your first game of laundry baseball, Son. Taking into account our recent vacation time and Spring Break, I can honestly assume that clean load of laundry has been hiding behind the couch for more than 2 weeks.
You are my favorite son.
I hate laundry.