Clothe-us Interruptus

My clothes are having sex.

That's the only explanation for what is happening in my laundry room. I honestly believe that somewhere in there a shirt, or perhaps a pair of undies, has a stash of Barry White albums, and as soon as I turn out the lights and shut the door, it fishes out one of the albums, sticks it inside a hidden CD player, and to the deep, smooth croons of Mr. White, on top of the washer set to the spin cycle, my clothes have an orgy.

And when I return to swap the clothes into the dryer, I swear to you that my piles of clothes have multiplied. Socks I don't remember even owning are popping up in strange places, shirts I swear I gave away are returning like polyester boomerangs, waiting to be folded and placed inside a dresser drawer, where they will likely have more sex. One particular pair of my husband's shorts, ones I know I've thrown into the garbage at least twice because they're holier than a Baptist choir, have reappeared in the dryer, acting all innocent, as if I'd never really intended to get rid of them--they'd fallen into the garbage can accidentally. Now I'm kind of afraid of them, afraid that if I try to toss them in the trash one more time they'll come back and smother me in my sleep.

The hamper is never empty, either. I don't think I've ever seen the bottom of it. Maybe there isn't one. Maybe where a bottom should be is really a portal into another dimension, where mountains of jeans, tank-tops and footie-pajamas are waiting for their window, their chance to leap into my laundry basket and get busy with whatever clothing is there.

I know I never did this much laundry before children. But I also didn't have to change clothes two seconds after getting dressed because I'd just been spit-up on. I didn't have to wash piles of Kool-Aid stained t-shirts or bibs encrusted with bananas. And I never had to wash my own sheets because of spilled chocolate milk or boogies because God forbid my son actually use a tissue to wipe his nose. I should buy stock in Tide and Downy...I go through it by the barrel.

It's only gonna get worse. Soon Rollie will be at the age when boys think rolling around in the mud is the most fantastically fun thing they've ever done or will ever do in their lives. He'll start coming home with bloodstained pantlegs and marker on his sleeves. And Elsa, who knows what sort of havoc she'll wreak on her pretty little pink outfits. I'm seriously considering dressing my children completely in black for the next ten years. Sure they'll look like creepy little goth kids, but at least they won't be sporting stubborn ketchup stains.

In the meantime, one of these days I'm going to catch my clothes in the act. As soon as I hear that spin-cycle come on, I'm going to barge into the laundry room, throw on the lights and shout, "Ah-HA!" And then I'll have to explain to my husband why I'm shouting at our dirty clothes. Although since having kids, I've done things that are far stranger.