At our house, the housework is accomplished by fairies. My husband and I are supposed to split the detail, but somehow, his chores almost always get done without him. We have a dish washing fairy and a laundry fairy. They are the most prominent. A basin, tub, and tile fairy makes a more occasional appearance.
Alas, these fairies can not always be trusted. Sometimes they use too much soap. Sometimes they don’t load the dishwasher right and things interfere with the spray action. My husband tried to blame one for washing a burgundy tablecloth with a load of darks, which also included the baby’s brand new pro sport sweatshirt and pants with bright white side stripes, now pink. But I know for certain that no fairy was involved. I know when my husband actually does the laundry. It’s not often. But it was that load. He still denies it.
The laundry fairy went too far this time. It was a load of whites, with one queen size flannel sheet too many. The machine went into its high spin cycle and started to hop across the floor with such a thundering thump thump clunk thump, that it scared me and the baby half way to Kansas and back. I ran to the laundry room as fast as I could, just in time to witness the mad hopping, and as I reached for the power button to make it stop, the front door gave way to the weight of the load. If only my reflexes were more honed. I could have saved my washer. But it wasn’t to be. The door latch would latch no more.
My husband tried to blame this event on me. ME! How could it be me, when we both know that we have laundry fairies. It’s a good thing that he fixes appliances for a living. We were up and running again in no time, and he finished the laundry that night.
