The Day I Went On Strike
At last I had my four bedroom ranch home in Florida. It was roomy, comfortable and perfect for four little girls to grow up in. The yard was almost an acre and yet we were not in a rural area but near some of the finest schools.
Now I had one of my most cherished longings fulfilled…an inside laundry room. It was an oblong room just off the family room with a counter that was the length of the room to fold clothes on. I needed that counter. It took quite a bit of time to decipher what socks and underclothes belonged to each girl, as their ages were all just a couple of years apart. (I can look back now and see some organizing skills that I lacked. For instance, I could have made each girl’s underclothes a different color,) Nevertheless, I carefully folded and made a separate pile for each one of my daughters. Then, it was their job to collect their pile and put the clothes in their drawer.
I thought to myself how good this plan is. At least, I can get through with the wash and dry chores a little quicker by teaching the girls to put their own clothes in their drawer. As a matter of fact, I felt pretty smug about it. After all, they were getting old enough to help. Julie was 12, Cherise 10, Jamie 8 and Anissa 6.
Yes, I was pretty proud of my ideas about the girls helping, although I did usually have to ask them more than once to put their clothes in their chest of drawers.
Almost every day is laundry day with four children unless you are deathly ill or have a fairy god mother. The sheets were usually changed and laundered on Saturday and the remainder of the clothes, just about every day.
This particular morning was like all the others. First, I went in Cherise’s bright red carpeted room, collected the dirty laundry from her basket. Then, I went to the other two bedrooms to also collect dirty clothes from the hamper. It was my last stop – my last laundry hamper – my last load of clothes – I stood frozen. I couldn’t believe it. My face started to feel warm and that warm sensation traveled all the way down my spine. What had I done wrong? Why did I have to see this? I alternated between tears and waves of sheer shock.
No, it wasn’t a snake in the laundry basket. It wasn’t a sex-crazed diary, nor a rat. Nor was it cigarettes or pills or any kind. It was immovable. It stared up at me, as if to say, “that’s right, it is me and what are you going to do about it?” I stared and stared and tried to think of something to tell myself. No matter how hard I stared, there it was.
The “it” was a clean, neatly folded pile of laundry placed in the dirty clothes hamper.
Apparently, the guilty one or ones had placed the clean clothes in the hamper because it was easier than putting the clothes in the drawer. So, I was supposed to wash them again and fold them again, so the guilty one wouldn’t have to put clothes in her drawer.
As the shock began to churn into reality, I could feel my “Mom Manager Mode “ crumble. My tired body tensed with agitation. I knew life as my children knew it would never be the same again.
No, I didn’t have a plan to ground them or lecture them but I did feel a plan forming in my mind that could be a fate worse than any lecture. I would form a plan that would require no harsh words but would allow these little sweeties to learn a life lesson of responsibility.
I could hear drum beats in the background as I gathered my ammunition. It would be business-like and then, we would never have to even discuss the wash again.
I summoned my troops with a smile knowing for me, it was a new day. That’s right. A new day. I would never have to do their wash again.
Eight questioning eyes were upon me as I explained what I had found. No, I was not interested in finding out who did the deed, I explained. ( I also wondered to myself how many other times had someone slipped something back into the dirty clothes hamper as an easy way to keep from having to put up the clean clothes.)
The eight curious eyes followed me as I passed out one grocery-sized paper bag to each daughter. I explained that from now on, they were to put their dirty clothes in their very own bags. When those bags were full, it was time to wash clothes. I explained how to separate white from colored clothes and the general principals of using detergent, washing machine and dryer.
I explained that I was no longer responsible for their laundry and to be sure and wash sheets on week-ends.
That was it. It was that easy. My nervous breakdown was over.
In the weeks that followed, I often heard negotiations between them, such as “let’s do our white load together:” or “I will do yours today, if you do mine next week, etc.”
The lesson of “doing your own wash” was more powerful than any lecture I could have given. The truth is, I think they were old enough and ready for that responsibility. They seemed to take pride in doing their wash. I never did go back to doing their laundry unless they were ill or unusual circumstances. That left me with more time to sew a new dress for them or bake a cake. It was a win-win situation for all;;;;.
Now they have children of their own and claim that I didn’t do any mental or emotional damage to them my “staying on strike.” We can laugh about it now.
Tough love is sure tough sometimes……Sometimes you just have to go on strike.
About the Author: Francine Larson is the co-author of "Character Keys to a Bright Future." She writes short stories, poetry and articles about family life. See her web site at:
http://www.goodcharacterpress.com/
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