Pushing through a load of laundry is usually a cathartic part of my day. I like the beginning-to-end process of it.
But Cloroxing this morning's load of whites went from cathartic to a mini-meltdown. And it didn't end until somewhere between the rinse and spin cycles.
The story began yesterday. I was doing some long-overdue closet cleaning in the kids' bedrooms after deciding it was time to thin out things that I had been saving for years. Old board games went bye-bye. I said adios to an abundance of grade school artwork – keeping the best in a new keepsake box. I found the strength to pass on most of the stuffed animals that had been keeping company in a big moving box – having a Toy Story "aha" moment – deciding they needed a new life. And I worked my way through a few boxes of old kiddie clothes I had been saving for years after realizing I really had no use for every pair of shorts, or the worn, now-hardened fancy shoes.
I did save a few articles of clothing. Special Christmas outfits. Old baseball team caps. The Duke jersey my oldest son wore for five years straight.
I also couldn't part with a little white dress my daughter wore when she was about six months old. The dress was adorned with little cherries on its scalloped collar. When she wore it she looked like she was smuggling pieces of "Hi-Ho Cherry-O" to play with later. When she wore it, she was small enough to sit in my arms, her rump on my right forearm, with her soft face usually resting on my shoulder. It was in my arms we explored the world together with our daily journeys through her new life.
Those moments were gold.
And that dress was not leaving the house.
But before I packed it away, saving it for a future generation, I decided that it deserved a cleaning. A ritual-like baptism of sorts to brighten it up and help preserve it for that day – many years in the future – when I would return the dress to my daughter.
Which brings me to this morning in the laundry room. With my Clorox bottle. And a washing machine filling up with warm, welcoming water.
As the Hi-Ho Cherry-O dress waited patiently on top of the washer, I began sorting through our laundry basket to pick out other whites to join in the celebration. I grabbed a bunch of crew neck undershirts from the boys. Socks of all types. A towel. Make that two. But then I discovered one more piece of clothing in the bottom of the laundry basket with a screaming message.
It was a message that gave me one of those "Oh-boy-Dad's-got-that-look-like-he's-a-nano-second-away-from-tearing-up" moments.
At the bottom of our laundry basket was a smock. Actually it was a white medical lab coat. It was my daughter's. The cherries on the collar, however were replaced with stitching displaying the words, "College of Nursing."
Words that sent the sad reminder that those days of Hi-Ho Cherry-O – at least with this little girl – have long passed. This little girl was on her own journey. No longer one she enjoyed perched in my arms. But one she was navigating on her own as she discovered her own dreams. And my role is to simply be her cheerleader on the sidelines.
That's why, at least every so often, when she asks me to do her laundry, I'm happy to help.
Even old dads like to be needed.
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