Oh yes, the last time we spoke I was complaining about my daughter's lack of cleanliness and the fact that I filled two lawn and leaf bags with errant clothing from the floor of her bedroom yesterday. (If, by chance, you have happened on this post and did not read yesterday's post entitled Rant and rave - teenage daughters - take one, please scroll down, read it, and make a silent resolution to be more faithful in the future.)
So there I stood along with my husband - staring at two large garbage bags and a pile of 18 baths towels on the floor of my daughter's bedroom.
Quite honestly, we really hadn't thought about the next step.
We'd taken her jackets, her jeans, and her skirts.
We snatched up pajamas and bathrobes and skirts,
tank tops, and tube tops, and bras my-oh-my
sweatpants and thongs of enormous supply!
So what should we do with these two bags of clothes?
When our daughter sees them it might well come to blows!
But her mother, you see, was so crafty and slick,
she thought up a plan. . . and she thought it up quick!
Then, just like the Grinch spiriting the Who's toys and Christmas decorations up the side of Mount Crumpet, my husband stuffed those two overflowing bags into the back of his car and drove away.
Do you remember how little Cindy Lou Who innocently asked the Grinch why he was stealing her tree? Santy Claus, why? Why are you taking our Christmas Tree, why????
Well, the daughter in this story was not nearly as meek when she called at work to question me about the whereabouts of her clothing.
I'm not really sure I could trace the exact downward spiral of the phone call, but it ended with something like (well actually, it concluded with my daughter hanging up on me, but her parting words went something like. . . .) You better go see a shrink, because there's something wrong with you if you have to steal all my clothes!
And that, my friends, was the nice part.
And so, in a subsequent conversation, I recommended that the best and fastest way for her to get her clothing back would be to start by laundering the 18 bath towels. After that task was complete, we would talk about the rest.
And then I went to my favorite establishment to cry in my wine while my good friend listened.
When I returned home, I found my ever-patient husband holding my daughter's hand while she laundered those towels - upon the sight of which I headed directly to my bed.
And this morning, that husband of mine plopped the two bags of clothing on the floor of the laundry room and promptly left the state on a business trip.
So here I sit this evening . . . listening to the distant rustle of those garbage bags as my daughter pulls out each and every article of clothing in order to place in the washing machine; for the final verdict was that a minimum of three full loads of laundry had to be washed, folded, and put neatly away before her friend-who-is-a-boy can come to visit tonight.
Happy washing, my darling. . . Happy washing!