The hazards of laundry day (and why I try to avoid it)

I hate laundry.

Every week or so, when the smell of rancid spit-up overpowers my children's room and the underwear supply runs dangerously low, I lug the laundry basket upstairs (which usually takes me a couple days itself) and get down to business.

I hate sorting it... deciding what is a dark and what is a light, then worrying that if I make a wrong decision my boys could be running around with pink t-shirts (which is pretty silly seeing that poop/spit-up stains don't seem to bother me).

I hate finding a way to occupy my toddler so that he won't torture (or more accurately lovingly smother) the baby while I'm downstairs throwing in the laundry.  (Literally throwing it in, meanwhile panicking as I imagine my son dragging the baby across the living room floor.)

I hate the smell of laundry detergent and dryer sheets on my hands.

I hate hate hate walking all the way downstairs to switch the laundry only to find it isn't done yet (yes, I am kind of lazy).

I hate taking 45 minutes out of my evening relaxation time to fold those annoyingly tiny t-shirts and snap all the little buttons on a gazillion sleepers (who even thought to put snaps on sleepers... have you heard of a zipper?).

And you can just forgot about putting the clothes away.  My family has learned to live out of laundry baskets (of which I have multiple for this reason exactly).  In fact, I put those not-so-freshly laundered clothes in their respective drawers and closets just in time to start the whole annoying process all over again.

And that is why I HATE laundry.