I spent all day doing laundry (In order to properly pack for a trip, clean clothes are recommended. Just call me Heloise). Laundry used to be one of those chores I just did not enjoy.
In fact -- let me come clean here -- I don't really enjoy any chores. I don't mind cooking, but cleaning? Sorting? Organizing? It does nothing for me at all. Of course I love the look of a nice clean house, but honestly -- the tradeoff of the work involved to get it there steals my joy. So generally we go with the "good enough" theory. I wouldn't be embarrassed if someone dropped in for an unannounced visit. Okay, I might be a little embarrassed, but I wouldn't be horrified.
But laundry and I have been kindling a little flame. On a "stay home" day, I try to do a few loads of laundry. I start with jeans, then with towels, then underwear, and then shirts. As each load comes out of the dryer, I plop them onto my bed for future folding. Then I take an hour or so, when that last wrinkle-prone load is finished and watch a favorite show on TV as I fold. I've come to look forward to this little ritual.
Yesterday as I was folding all the laundry, a feeling of satisfaction welled up in me. I was doing something. I didn't go quite so far as some of the uber-perfect moms who write tips about praying for each family member as they smooth and/or iron their items of clothing, but I did get warm fuzzies. No, it's nothing monumental, and it won't bring about world peace, but there are so few ways to measure success as a stay-at-home mom. Knowing that my fridge has cold milk and there is peanut butter and bread in the pantry, as well as drawers filled with clean underwear are a few little things that help me feel like I'm actually doing something right.
I am satisfied (at least until the cubbards run bare and the laundry hampers overflow).