An unspeakable conspiracy
Granted, many husbands don’t do laundry. Mine does. He also irons. Bathes kids (one of which literally inches to the highest/farthest point in the tub she can find before cannon balling onto her brother who is playing calmly and unsuspectingly in the water… Ok, so he likely is suspecting)
Back to his list…
He reads bedtime stories.
Is our toddler’s and preschooler’s and tween’s sought after-parent at 11 and 2 and 5 and, well at any time in our sleeping moments.
He cuddles and coddles.
And yet somehow, when he does laundry, my underwear are never to be found in the Gain scented mounds that end up awaiting my folding.
And so, on a day that I seek to find solace in a shower, I find myself digging through the laundry baskets in search of the cleanest pair of dirty undies- only to find one available pair- no comparison needed. A conspiracy, I tell ya’.
