Every time I go to climb into or out of bed, I have to reset the fitted sheet. For some reason, no matter which sheet I use on our queen size mattress, the sheet comes off with very little movement. Husband purchased a set of elastic bands that fasten onto the corners of fitted sheets to help hold them into place, but even those don’t seem to work. It could be that the sheets are all so old they have the elasticity of a prostitute who boasts fifty years of experience. It could be that we’re more rough sleepers than we realize (husband and I sleep on different schedules most of the time because of his work shift). But I’d like to think that there are gremlins sneaking into my bedroom when no one is looking and unhooking the sheets from the mattress, because that seems to be the most logical explanation.
I hate doing laundry, which is why I have eight loads to run through the wash right now. It’s not the washing that bothers me; it’s the putting away. So I don’t always change the sheets as often as maybe I should. When I’m hooking the sheets back onto the mattress so that I can get some sleep, I’m not thinking about doing laundry at that point and don’t even feel the energy to head across the house to the linen closet to dig through the tangled sheets (Luna thinks the linen closets are a place to play and disorganize) to find one of the few that we own that actually fit our mattress. Although, even if I change them regularly, now that I am breastfeeding Freya, I am annoyed by the condition of my sheets.
Whereas at one point the sheets might’ve been christened with coital fluids or stained by the burden of womanhood in general, they are now covered in large spots of breastmilk so that even the black sheet looks like a tiedye job gone horribly horribly wrong. My favorite sheets used to be the 250 thread count red cotton sheets that my granny bought me four or five years ago. but half a decade of various bodily fluids accidentally spilling onto them and being washed off in the roughest cycles of various laundromat machines hasn’t exactly left them soft and pretty anymore. We also have a black cheapo sheet from Wal-Mart and two cream-colored sheets from the charity store my grandparents run. If we bought three more sheets I could change them daily…if I had the energy.
As it is, Luna has accidents frequently still, so I have to wash toddler clothing and tiny sheets on a regular basis. Add to that her affinity for digging through those linen closets, and now Freya’s various bodily fluids staining her own linens (and everything I wear), and you have the reason why doing laundry just once a week can easily still mean eight loads or more. I’ve petitioned husband to help me set up the garage so that it appears more like a sort of laundry lounge, so maybe I’d want to hang out in there. If there were a comfy but cheapo couch, maybe a cheap TV, a place to plug in my laptop and/or cellphone, folding and hanging stations…it could be a fun place to do an unfun chore. And if the kiddos could go into the garage with me without me worrying about the mouse shit and gas cans endangering their safety, I might also want to spend more time on the laundry.
As for the reasons my own bedsheets are often soiled, I suppose it is entirely my fault for not wearing a bra and breastpads to sleep and for sleep-feeding Freya rather than getting up and staying awake through a feeding and then putting her down and covering her milk jugs back up, but I hate wearing bras in general and don’t own any maternity bras. I owned them when Luna was a baby, but those have long since fallen apart. I don’t even know what size bra I am anymore. They had been Double Ds, but I’m not sure that they still are, or what the numeric part is. I don’t want to get measured at Victoria’s Secret because last time I did they convinced me to purchase one of only two bras they carried in my size, and after six months the bra fell apart. The underwire came out in the airport on the way to Houston. I want to the bathroom and used the one that came out to help rip the other one out so that I could throw both wires away so my boobs wouldn’t look funnier than they might already have looked.
I’m at the point now where I just don’t care about hygiene and housework until it starts to bother others. It is not that I have fallen into some deep dark depression that you should all be worried about. I just only have two settings when it comes to housework: 1) OC and DGAF. OC is obsessive compulsive. There is a place for everything and everything should be in it’s place or the world is going to end. This is not a good setting for dealing with spouses and children because your daughter is going to get into the linen closets and tangle the sheets and your husband is going to leave a mysteriously crusty rag underneath the desk in his office and you’re going to go bald from pulling your hair out in frustration. DGAF is don’t give a fuck. There may be places for everything but, well, you just don’t give a fuck because no one else does. So you let it slide until you can’t let it slide anymore. For me, that’s either the point where husband starts yelling at me or the point where if I don’t clean it soon it will cease being healthy.
I have some small amounts of routine in my life. I bathe one child a night so they both get a bath every 48 hours. I wash as many dishes as I can while I’m preparing a meal for husband to take to work. I usually start the dinner and the dishes at around 7.00-8.30p depending on how the children are behaving, 8.30 being the latest I can wait. When the food is done, I’m done washing dishes. When I wake up in the morning, I try to remember to check the washer and dryer, but sometimes I don’t go to bed so I don’t wake up so I might not remember to check that day and some days I’m fully into DGAF. I cook breakfast on the days that husband wants me to. If he doesn’t want me to, then Luna and I dig into the leftovers or have cereal or cereal bars or some such thing. And at least three times a week I try to fuck my husband. I wish it were more often than that, but we do have two small children.
Jessie Spencer–Na na na na na na na na, sheets of Egyptian cotton.