Amazingly, I did manage to make a dent in the laundry tonnage this weekend in between doing some knitting and sock repair. Although they considered it an exploitation of their labor, I insisted that the boys match socks while watching TV on HULU.
The sock darning I did is not a thing of beauty,
As you can see, we got a bit of snow here. And while my brother started planning a get-rich scheme based on a World Wide Sock Meet-Up, my family moved on:
The scene: The kitchen at 6:55 am. 10 minutes before the bus.
DH: (with despair) Why are my gloves all soaking wet? How can I bike to work in these?
Son#2: (Spoken with casual indifference) Oh, I borrowed them while I was building and killing snow men. (The parents make a mental note of potentially psychopathic behavior, but stick to the glove topic.)
DH: (disgusted) So what am I going to wear?
Son #2: You can wear these. (He holds up his sleeping big brother's lobster bike gloves that he was planning on wearing himself.)
DH: Then what will you wear?
Son #2: I can wear your old gloves, and your new gloves will be dry by the time Nico goes to school.
Conflict narrowly averted! But I know that long as gloves and mittens are wet, there will be pilfering and bickering. There is no time to loose. I need to take 30 seconds and make a mitten dryer. Make that two.
Again, this is not a thing of beauty and it will not be a joy forever, but
in spite of all,
This shape of unbeauty moves away the wet
From our damp mitts.
(With apologies to John Keats.)