Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Laundry does not equal love

I don't like doing laundry. I saw a sign once that read "I wake up everyday so very thankful that I have piles and piles of dirty underwear, brownish-colored socks, and sticky shirts to wash, because it means I am surrounded by those I love." Or something along those lines.


It kind of made me gag a little. OK. A lot.

Maybe I'm just not that thankful of a person, but for me, laundry does not equal love. It means I'm surrounded by dirty little people who don't even want to touch their own socks long enough to put them in the hamper. Granted, the hamper is a whole 3 feet away from their bedrooms. That is a completely unreasonable distance. I get it. Really, I do. Of course, it's much more fun to peel our socks off and launch them into the air, letting them fall where they will. At least the boys will get a few days out of a pair of those socks. If they aren't black they'll wear them for a several days, and I'm actually OK with that. I don't like to fold socks anyway. But my daughter...She doesn't wear things two days in a row. She doesn't wear things two hours in a row. It's simply unacceptable. There are too many choices. Breakfast is a casual affair, so anything goes. By lunchtime it's usually getting pretty hot outside, so a quick change of attire is appropriate. Afternoon snacks can warrant a wardrobe change, as can dinner. Which is fine. But all those clean clothes actually do end up making it into the hamper, and since I can't tell which is what, I end up washing them all over again. And then I wash them again. And again. Because I put them in the washer, then I forget about them.The mildew stench eventually draws me back to the laundry room, and I have to wash them again. On a good day, I can get 3-4 loads of laundry washed a day. Even if technically, it's the same load. I count that as a productive day.

But I shouldn't complain. I do get paid. The treasures I find in the dryer could pay for a trip to some exotic local.

That blue gem alone should, at the very least, buy me a trip to the bathroom without any kind of interruption for 10 minutes.    

But today? I struck gold! $7.00!

Then I realized that it was mine to begin with.

Friday, July 5, 2013

Good evening. Will that be the firework section, or the non-firework section?

The Fourth of July is a delicate thing for us. Last year, the fire ban canceled shows all over Colorado and even the common, legal kind of fireworks were banned. This was a tragedy for the 3 pyromaniacs in this family. (And  no doubt the many firework stands set up on every corner.) While I like watching them, it wasn't really a  huge deal for me, but for Delaney it was a blessing. She plays tough; climbs trees, brings worms home from school in her backpack, but she would rather wrestle the werewolf under her bed than watch fireworks.

When she was younger, I thought it was something she would just grow out of.

This year in June we took her to the firework show that our little town has during their "BBQ Days", thinking it would be fine. She was excited, and bounced around with the other kids, but the second the first one boomed through the sky she screamed, and within 30 seconds, she was literally trembling, sobbing and trying to climb under the chair. She was in a pure state of panic, like a wild animal, screaming that they were going to get her, and they were going to fall on her. I couldn't get her to the car, because it was too far away and she'd have to walk under them, so she huddled on my lap, buried under the blanket and cried and shook. I've never been so happy for a display to end, but not as happy, I'm sure, as she was.

Last night I thought she'd be OK because we just let off the little fountains and sparklers, but she kept finding reasons to go into the house: to the bathroom, to wash her hands, to get something, etc. She came inside and we put headphones on her, so she couldn't hear them. My dog used to be the one terrified, but now that he's going deaf, they don't bother him much. Now it's Delaney that panics. If I left her home alone, she'd rip up all the sofas and claw the doors.

I looked up the word for a firework phobia; apparently, it doesn't qualify as a phobia because it's not "irrational".  Seems pretty irrational when your child is clawing her way under a chair and screaming. Despite the fact that it's not a "real" phobia, it does have a variety of interesting names. I think the last one is my favorite...


Anyone else have a child who is so terrified of fireworks? Did it ever get any better?


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