I reached into the dryer and pulled a handful of clothes into the basket. As I pulled I heard the clink of plastic hitting the floor. There it was at my feet. A pen. A pen with deep blue ink covering the clicker at the top. No, no, no.
See, I knew what this meant. I had done it before. Washed and dried an ink bomb with our laundry. Hoping for clothes to come out clean, I knew I would face a different reality. Now it became a game of laundry roulette. Which clothes would escape unscathed.
Sometimes I feel like this is my everyday. Something so innocent, useful even, ends up in the wrong place at the wrong time and nothing around is safe.
It’s the dinner invitation accepted when we really needed a quiet night at home. The invite is thoughtful. The company and food perfect. The me that’s left when no one is looking is frazzled and rushed and behind the eight ball.
The extra sport that would be so good for the little one. It will socialize, provide team building skills, teach responsibility. I’m not sure who suffers the strong-arm of responsibility more: the child or the one rushing through dinner so we can rush out the door yet again.
The extra tv show that is so funny. And yes, I’ve seen it before, but it makes me laugh every time. Laughter is good for the soul after all. Not at the price of a cranky exhausted mama who overslept and starts her day with her shoulders to her ears gritting her teeth.
Everything has a place and a time that works, that makes sense. If only I could learn from the ink stains. And I will. For awhile.
After all, I only lost half the load. And you can wear socks with ink stains, right?