I can’t think of any mother that hasn’t nearly gone insane with the loads of laundry that seem to pile up in various nooks of a house or accumulate to mini-mountain peaks on the floor of whatever room holds the washer…the kitchen, pantry, basement. Even when the day is done and I just yearn to plop on the couch and watch a mind-numbing show – my recent fix is In Treatment with the tragic therapist played by Gabriel Byrne (I have to watch it to keep up with how my profession is portrayed in the media) – there appears the scent of fabric softener. And low and behold before me as I round the corner to the living room is a pile of wrinkled but clean and dry clothes strewn across the carpet. They are waiting obviously for me, and no other, to neatly assemble them in stacks by color, type and owner.
How did it get there? And for how long has this mass been walked over by every household member from the age of 7 to 51? Did I dump them before my five-day business trip only to return with the assemblage unmoved? Could it be that another 50 pairs of undies, socks, and sweatshirts have been washed and dried in my absence – by whom? How much can a family of four go through in a few days? Am I losing my mind?
I plop in the middle of it all – knowing I could never overlook it while tying to relax in front of the TV – unlike my husband who has an amazing ability for selective attention to his surroundings. 
Apparently, my daughters have the same genetic defect. I’m hoping that by the time the girls are teenagers they will have to wash their own jeans if they want a fresh pair for school. Maybe that’s when the environmental – or social – cues will ignite the clean gene in them. So, I sit among the mass not sure what to feel. I just know I have a strong yearning for lemonade.
