Cleaning with a Toddler

Cleaning up while a toddler is "Helping" is to enter a world where Hell is real, it is here on Earth and I am it's bitch.

First off, Bacon Hoss is 1.  Not old enough to move out on his own but well on his way.  I think that he is offended by clean things, that it somehow hits his sense of decency.  A clean room is a room that has no life in it, no joy in it.  Joy is the mess, joy is the destruction.  Perhaps my youngest son is a evil villain and if he is, I am sure he will be very successful at it.

Washing clothes in this house never gets done.  I have no idea why.  There is no day that I don't do laundry.  There is no day that I don't load at least 2 full baskets.  And yet, there is always more.  Always more stuffed under beds, behind couches, on top of bookshelves because why the fuck not?

I was doing laundry today, as I do every day.  I was attempting to put away Hossmom's clothes.  Normally I do not do this.  It offends my sense of decency.     Not really but I like the excuse better than the real one.  I fold them the best I can and put them in her own basket, to be put away by here.

I can't figure out Hossmom's clothes.  They make no freaking sense.  They are all delicate, lacy and sheer.  I feel like my meaty hands are soiling them after I wash them.  Jeans and a T-shirt, that I know how to do.  A womans work shirt is a puzzle that only a man meditating for 50 years can understand.

They do not fit on any hangers, I do not know why.  Who would design a shirt this way?  Why???  You get one shoulder on and the other falls off so that eventually you are performing some weirdo balancing trick with a freaking shirt.  Multiply this by 20 and that is how I was spending my day.  Pants don't fold right, it's like trying to fold a fitted sheet.  Eventually you just get frustrated and wad it up into a ball and through it onto some random shelf.

You can imagine that this does not make Hossmom happy when she sees her clothes like this.  But I submit that putting away her laundry is like trying to organize friends according to height.

My clothes are easy.  I just did them.  Jeans fold nicely and go in a drawer.  Socks, all white and all match go in a drawer.  Her socks are like where weird socks go on vacation and end up staying after giving up on life.  Shirts get hung up, they fit on hanger, and hang neatly.  Work shirts fold nicely and fit in the drawer nicely.  This took me only about 15 minutes for about every article of clothing that I own.

It's taken me a good 30 minutes to hang up 3 shirts in Hossmoms closet.  I was trying to get everything finished.  A clean house gets me a happy wife.  A happy wife gets me other things, things that happen when the kids are asleep.  Like foot rubs.

After a while, I realized that I hadn't heard from my youngest in a while.  Never a good sign.  I assumed that this meant that he was probably in the toilet playing in poo water.  He does that.  When it's bed time he's loud as hell.  When he's doing something he shouldn't, quiet as a mouse.  At 1, he understands this.

I go to check on him and go past my chest of drawers.  Two of the drawers are open which I find odd because this is one of my pet peeves.  In fact, I'm so annoyed that they are open that I don't really register the fact that there is nothing in them.  It escapes me.  Perhaps I wasn't on my A game today.

I walk into the hallway just in time to see Bacon Hoss toss my last pair of underwear right over the railing, sailing like a kite down the stairs, hitting the last stair like a fluffy cloud, quite beautiful in any other circumstances.  They were my pirate boxers to.  Just want to throw that out there, that I have pirate boxers.  I love being me.

Next to my pirate boxers are the entire contents of both drawers.  Right there, on the floor and the steps like my chest vomited after a hard night of chest parties, it drinks to much.  I wasn't happy, understandable.  And after a few choice words to a toddler that has no idea what I'm saying, I grab a basket and head down stairs and retrieve them all the while still lecturing my child because I couldn't think of what else to do.

I put them on the bed, still annoyed, tired, exasperated.  Damn it, damn it, damn it.  I just put away most of this 30 minutes ago.  Now I'm doing that same job right over again.  In effect, I have made no progress what so ever.  None.  I am an t a 0 for productivity for the day.  I am not happy.

I am not happy that I have gotten no cleaning accomplished.  I am not happy that I'm doing the same job right over again.  I am not happy that I do not see my son, where the hell man.  He was right here a minute ago, I was lecturing him.

I hear something snap in Hossmoms closet.

God damn it.

I go inside the closet to see my son pulling Hossmom's shirts off the hangers.  The three that I managed to hang up and about 20 more.  While I was lecturing to apparently no one, he made his escape into the closet and picked whatever his grubby hands could reach, my wife's clothes.

"Stop!" I say.

The little bastard turns around and looks at me.

Then I swear to god he smiled, the little butt hole smiled, and pulled another shirt off.

And that is when I decided that I would no longer attempt to put Hossmoms clothes away.  I put them into the basket.  Plus a few more shirts that don't need to be washed.

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