I wish it would go away, but it just keeps staring at me from the basket in the corner.
It’d be great if it would fold itself, but it can’t; it doesn’t have arms. I can think of nearly a million and one things I’d rather do than put it away. Here are five:
This one tops the list and goes without saying. These days, I’d pretty much rather nap than, well, be awake, period. But, alas the kids always stand in the way of this one. I can’t very well expect Scotty to change his own diaper or boil his dinner pasta on the stove. (Not without Child Protective Services being called, anyway.) And what about Kennedy? She’s got excellent upper body strength for a seven-month-old, but I don’t think she’s got the necessary motor skills to hook me up to the breast pump, extract the milk, and feed herself all while I remain comatose and curled up in a ball.
Now, this one is right up there with a nap. In fact, I don’t know which one I’d love to seduce more – my Egyptian cotton bed sheets or a crisp, cool sparkling glass of champs, my libation of choice. But just like I don’t sleep while my kids are awake and under my care, I don’t drink, either. Rather, this savory treat is reserved for when the kids are in bed and have been asleep for a while. And by a while, I mean at least one minute: I put them down at 7:57 p.m., and have my glass in hand by, oh, 8:01 p.m.
Blow up Scott’s bevy of game day footballs.
You can’t shake a stick around here without knocking over a commemorative football (i.e. the footballs that were used during both college and NFL games Scott has played in; when a player is awarded the title of MVP for that particular game, then said player is given the ball to keep). These balls are like crabgrass; they’re on display everywhere this house. And they often lose air, which makes them the opposite of display-worthy. (Look at the one on the bottom right in the photo above.) Yeah, I could hook them up to one of those inflation-tube-thinga-ma-jiggies. But I could also go the extra mile and try and blow them up myself. What with all the effort that would exert, wouldn’t that burn a few hundred calories? Come to think of it, wouldn’t this exercise count as cardio?
Watch Barney with Scotty.
Heck, you know I really don’t want to fold the laundry when I’d voluntarily watch a human dressed in a dinosaur costume lip sync to one of the most annoying songs in the history of children’s television – and as luck would have it, the “I love you, you love me” theme song is among Scotty’s favorites. Lucky me.
Clean out my lingerie drawer.
It’s bad in there. And by bad, I mean horribly embarrassing. Where else can you find too-small thong underwear, pregnancy granny panties, expired coupons, and my favorite childhood stuffed animal, simply named “Monkey,” whose ear is hanging by a thread? My lingerie drawer is where useless things come to die. I haven’t cleaned it out in years, but the idea of doing so suddenly seems mildly appealing when contemplating folding the wash.
But since I don’t have the freedom to nap, the lung capacity to blow up twenty footballs, the will to let go of pitiful stuffed relics from my childhood, the patience to allow the Barney theme song to weave its way back and forth through my ear canal all day, or the poor judgment to enjoy my Special K with alcohol while the kids are underfoot, then I guess I may as well just fold the damn laundry.
C'mon. I know I'm not alone on this one. What would you rather do than fold the laundry?
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