Just a Moment

When I was young, I always thought the laundromat would be fun. It was. The first time. Then it became a chore I detested. When I bought my first house there was no dryer, so all the clothes were dried inside in the wintertime and softened with an iron or body heat. I didn’t complain though, it wasn’t my chore any more.

Growing up, my mother always did these tiny little loads of laundry and I couldn’t understand what part of “super duty” she didn’t understand. I mean if the thing was made to be stuffed, then stuff it. So when I finally got my first  complete in-house laundry facility, I did just that. Stuffed the thing full of whatever was in the hamper, dosed it with detergent and then dried, re-dried and re-dried again.

As married couples do, we divided up the chores and the laundry became mine, at which point my ex stated that the laundry pretty much did itself. He quickly learned that steps 4-6 could take up to two weeks to complete given my adversity to folding, sorting and stuffing clothes back into swelling dresser drawers. He conceeded and we began sharing the laundry chore. I still remember the cute little way he would fold my underwear and hook my socks together. Not a reason to stay married, but it had merit.

When the kids came along, things got worse; we were overcome with laundry. Fortunately, we had lots of help from his Mom, who also did tiny little loads of laundry. It was just as annoying as when my mother did it.

Once I was on my own, some good intentioned souls counseled me to do a load of laundry every night to keep on top of it. But then I was just doing laundry every night and throwing it in a hamper to be folded and sorted two weeks later.

I decided the answer was to buy bigger, taller hampers so I didn’t have to do it so often. The problem then became the hallway dressers that held our mash of clothes for weeks (sometimes folded, sometimes not).

Every morning I would mine for the right socks and underwear and gym day or regular day attire. It was a constant curse fest.

Over the holidays I had an enlightened moment where I discovered the solution to my seemingly insurmountable battle with the three extra large clothes hampers used to contain the majority (and often times all) of our clothes.

I bought three of the smallest, shallowest rectangle hampers I could find and labelled them, Korey, Justin and Mom. Now, we each put our clothes into separate hampers and on wash day (or night) I do three tiny little loads of laundry, with minimum water, less detergent (as I learned), on a shorter “light soil” cycle and dry them separately with one push of the dryer button. Then, I take each tiny little, pre-sorted load, quickly fold it, put it back in the hamper and put it away.  Laundry now takes less time, uses less detergent, water and electricity and there are always underwear, socks and pants available on our rushed mornings.

I guess our mothers were right. But, who knew I had so many bras.

I turned the lights out at 10:30 last night, just before the big storm hit. I woke through the night, playing musical beds as the kids and I always do and I heard the wind, but didn’t look out. This morning I was met with screams from Korey about all the snow that had fallen. Pushing the door open, I found the back deck was up to my knees…now that might not be saying much, but it’s still deep when you have to shovel it.

The ex came by on a 4-wheeler to pick up the kids and plowed me out, it was the ex-swipe, not the traditional clean sweep of yesteryear. But, I’m grateful nonetheless. I cleaned up the rest, made a path for Mandy to get out the back door and waited.

The plow came by an hour later and dumped mounds of snow back in my clean driveway. I rushed out and a neighbour with a snowblower told me to take a break. Just as I was tidying that up, the plow came by a second time. I guess you shouldn’t call the plow driver a fuckin prick, because he came back a third time, just for fun.

All the snow has put me in the Christmas spirit. I called to make an appointment to have my carpets cleaned next week and have Mandy groomed. One always has to occur before the other. The Christmas tree will be hunted next Sunday and we’ll be all set. Now I just need to start the shopping.

I’m realizing that my problem with the kids not heeding me so well, is not entirely my fault, but as with everything in life, it’s my responsibility. You cannot control what you give away to someone else and that goes for your problems, emotions and money.

The kids call their Dad every time something goes wrong here and he disciplines them over the phone or talks them off the ledge. It’s not helpful. He is left with the feeling that I cannot control them so he has to step in and I’m frustrated that I’m being seen as ineffective.

I’m reminded that back in the summer I was disciplining the kids, loudly, and they commented to their Dad that they were afraid of me. I told Roger and he said, “Good. They should be afraid of you.” But, it was used as leverage to once again kick my parenting ability. It’s tough, but I’ll deal with it. I always do.

Today is my wedding anniversary. It’s funny how I still say, “my wedding”. I remember the engagement year, I constantly referred to it as mine, as if my finance was inconsequential. I was getting married, he was along for the ride.

We laughed together today exchanging happy anniversary greetings. But, you know, it’s sad for me. It wasn’t what I meant to have happen, the ending, that is.

Maybe I’m just feeling sorry for myself, which I really have no reason to feel. I’m in a good place. Plenty to keep me busy, lots of growth opportunities, two amazing children and a dedicated and loving co-parent. I don’t consider myself a single parent. A single mom perhaps. I definitely chose the right father for my children. It’s just too bad we weren’t the right couple.

Je m’appelle Heather.

Moi, je parlez français.

Comment allez-vous?

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I was saving french lessons for retirement, but a good opportunity presented itself, so I jumped at it. A fellow yogi, who was also my son’s soccer coach this summer, is in my class. She’s a lot of fun, so Wednesday evenings will be entertaining to say the least, except for next Wednesday when I have to go to night court for my speeding ticket. Oh, I didn’t tell you about that?

Beautiful spring afternoon and I’m leaving work with Jimmie on my back, heading for guitar lessons. When I came out the side door of my building, Bob Dylan’s bus was parked on the street. A rental security officer asked me politely if I wouldn’t mind walking AROUND the bus. To which I responded, “Excuse me?” He repeated his request and I gave him a puzzled look, “That’s kind of dangerous, don’t you think?”

Pissed off, I walked straight into traffic without looking, just hoping for a photo-opp of me and Jimmie sprawled on Duke street because some washed-up singer thought I might be interested in looking at him while he sat on his bus. And, I mean no disrespect to Mr. Zimmerman, but, come on. Unfortunately, traffic was light.

Things got worse when I arrived at guitar lessons and told Roger of my trouble. He got me all worked up and told me I should have said, “Yes. Yes, I fucking mind walking around the bus. This is my sidewalk, I pay taxes for it, and I’m going to walk on it.”

Needless to say my brain was off writing this blog post on the way home from my lesson and wouldn’t you know, a very nice police officer thought he clocked me breaking the limit, slightly. I kindly accepted the ticket, but showed up in court two months later to plead not guilty and get my day in court. Next week is it. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Just to top it off, the next morning, while I’m impersonating a pace-car and cruise-controlling at 50 kmh, radio reports of the Bob Dylan concert went something like, “he didn’t say hi, bye, kiss my ass, or even acknowledge where he was. Just played and left. No encore.” How is that entertainment? No where near as cool as french lessons.

Salute, mon amis.