Because I'm one of these hippy save-the-world types, I firmly believe that Christians are called to love others sacrificially.
When said service does not involve laundry.
Or my family members.
When I brought my fiancé home one weekend, to meet my mother, she badgered him, "What color underwear do you have on?"
Shooting him a reassuring nod, I indicated that it was safe to answer. I suspected she was just looking for one more item to get a full load of white laundry started before lunch. Because she raised me, I did not find this situation the least bit unusual. I've since become aware that it may be.
Awkwardly confessing to wearing red boxers, my betrothed did not make the laundry cut that day.
He did make mine, though.
During premarital counseling, when we divvied up household responsibilities, I signed on for laundry. I wasn't thrilled about it, but I was fairly confident I could throw some stuff in a metal box and push start. How hard could it be? I did made it perfectly clear to my groom that, though I was raised by the Martha Stewart of all things laundered, I had not followed in my mother's bleached-sock footsteps. The laundry-apple, I warned him, had fallen far from the tree. Really far. Like, professional Dry Cleaner far.
Sadly, I still got the job.
Now a mother of three, the duties of Chief Laundress remain with me.
I'm in the kitchen when a loud thump-thump comes cascading from the second floor. Racing to the landing to check for injuries, I see my daughter's laundry basket looking more full than usual. Skimming off the top bed sheet layer, digging through her basket, I discover why. Amidst the stinky socks I find a brown tennis shoe, a dress she's never worn in public, a Hannah Montana wig, a perfectly clean bathrobe, and a plastic snow globe.