It’s always the same thing every Sunday night – washing the Physical Education uniform (shorts and a t-shirt with the school’s logo and your child’s name scrawled in black indelible ink across the front. That’s how they do it here in Saratoga). Chloe always follows a strict schedule when it comes to bringing home the PE clothes for a good washing. Max? Not so much. I think it’s been two weeks (despite my constant reminding) since his little outfit’s last been laundered. When I unzipped his backpack tonight, the garments – stinky and stiff from salty sweat – virtually walked out from their stashed position behind the algebra textbook on their own. I picked them up with a tight forefinger to thumb pinch, the least amount of skin touching the offensive cloth as I could manage. When the clothes hit the hot water in the washer, I swear I could hear them yelp, “I’m melting…I’m melting!”
I think this situation calls for two wash cycles, don’t you?