The weekend, for the working parent, is, you see, a delicate alchemy of chores and child entertainment. Oh sure, I hear you Baby Boomers murmuring that you just threw us into our rooms or out onto the street and let us fend for ourselves. Whatever. We were whiny, loud and troublesome in the 70s too. And you, too, my sweet oldster, were devising interesting, clever ways to get our energy out. Don't think I don't remember. I was there too. Maybe we had longer leashes, but you were busy devising the leashes, my friends.
So between trips to toddler music camp, the playground, church (if you're going) and play dates, we working moms and dads are also shopping for groceries and doing a complex and delicate dance with the washing machine. Between each event, toss another load into the washer, another into the dryer, and another onto the couch. Nap time: fold. Bonus points if you get it folded and put away before the kid wakes up. It's harder than it looks.
So as the sun sets on my Sunday, and I lounge here on the sofa, I look to my right and see the last thing between me and gold medal weekend satisfaction: the final load of whites. Better get crackin'. Starting Monday with a bronze medal is no way to face the work week.
