I fell in love with the Flotsam blog after stumbling across an interview with the author (Alexa Stevenson) on NPR. She got pregnant with twins after infertility treatments only to lose her son. His twin sister Simone was born at 26 weeks, and Alexa and her husband endured one of those nightmarish rides through the NICU before Simone was able to come home. She wrote a book, which I have asked my mother to buy me for the holidays, called “Half-Baked” about the experience. I am sure it is brilliant.
This rather somber introduction makes her sense of humor all the more remarkable. Maybe the funniest thing I’ve ever read on a blog was this, where she takes us on a pictorial tour of her home in all its toddler-filled disarray. “Stiffened, elderly washcloths”, “rug last washed during previous administration” are a few of the particularly droll highlights.
I have been thinking of her photo essay, mostly because of the laundry problem I currently find myself faced with. I do not particularly mind doing laundry, I actually enjoy folding it, as this provides me with a guilt-free way to watch bad TV (like My Fairy Job Mother) without feeling like a slug. And yet, I am in danger of being buried alive by our writhing, thriving endless supply of dirty and clean clothes.
Here is the current state of my laundry, in all its glory.
Clean clothes, ready to be put away:
Dirty laundry, nominally sorted by color
Laundry, currently in washing machine
Laundry in dryer
Dirty laundry strewn on closet floor because of lack of available hamper:
I mean, really. I am considering grabbing both children under each arm and fleeing the premises hysterically. In a similar style to the Freelings when they were chased out of their home by that pesky Poltergiest . The laundry wins.