The amount of laundry currently being done in this house has to be seen to be believed. Things hang from every surface, drying as fast as they can in a house chilled by the chilliest winds of the chilliest February I can remember.*
[*This is not saying very much. My current build-up of broken sleeps and short nights and long days mean that I can barely remember what happened half an hour ago, so not being able to remember any other February is hardly surprising. I do not remember what I left this room for ten minutes ago, although I’ll probably remember in a bit now I’ve come back empty handed. Today I managed to pay at one of those self-checkout things at the tiny supermarket at the end of the road, and then walked out without my shopping, only realising two hours later. Still: I remembered the baby, so I’m counting the outing as a success.]
It is not just the baby clothes that are making up the laundry motherlode. They are very small. Baby sized, in fact (and he is quite a small baby, at that), so dont take much room in the washing machine or the hanging space. What take up more room is the adult sized things that have been covered in baby-matter.
Babies, I have learnt these last few weeks, are prodigious creators of matter, from either end. Doozers main business appears to be in the transfer of milk-matter from my breasts to cotton muslin squares, via a short visit to his stomach. Sometimes, however* (*around 479 times a day) he misses the muslin, and hits me. Or his father. And whatever were wearing at the time.
Laundry volume, therefore, is quite high. It would be higher, but my standards are currently quite low.
And getting lower with tiredness.
Usually, the biggest splattering of sick comes just before we have to go out somewhere for an appointment, or social engagement, such as they are. Usually, this will mean Ill have time to change Doozer, but not both of us.
I now find myself looking at the thing Im wearing and thinking Has this got sick on it? How much sick? Oh. Some sick. Is that too much sick, I wonder? I mean, how much sick IS too much sick, really? This can barely be seen. In fact, if I put this cardigan on, it cant be seen at all. Oh, this cardigan has sick on it as well. But not MUCH sick, right? No, this is barely any sick at all! This is definitely a passable level of sickâ€¦
It is surely only a matter of time before we start wearing clothes printed with a tasteful baby-sick-splatter pattern (there is a market for this. Surely someone is making these already) or just forego clothes altogether.
To be honest its more likely to be the first.
Oh who am I kidding: to be honest, its more likely to continue exactly as we are now, but Ill start trying to convince people its the first in order to try and persuade them that Im not a posset-splattered slattern after all.
(Which, of course, I am.)