Blaine left today for a weeklong trip for work.
Today I folded laundry. For hours. Something nearing 12 loads of laundry were already washed, dried, and waiting when my day began. I was only backed up on folding for a few days and that’s where I ended up. Throw in a few more loads that I did today and, well, today I folded laundry. Only two remain not put away. One more is still in the dryer.
This serving my family thing is hard. When I see the teaching of school, the laundry, and, well, more laundry in front of me, when my husband is off earning a living – because, well, the electricity usage from these loads, and darn it, the children want to eat as well… When there’s no end in sight for what needs to happen, it’s hard. Motherhood has taught me, like nothing else in life, about dying to oneself. Not that I’ve mastered, or even fully grasped, the concept, but I’m learning. Learning to sit and fold laundry. To rock a fussy baby, and fold more laundry. To give a spelling test and fold more laundry. To stop and switch loads, to explain long division five more times, to sort out clothes that this growing baby has outgrown, to read a toddler her favorite book yet again, to watch her repay the favor to her baby brother (and her own baby), and fold yet more.
It’s a privilege, an honor, to serve these children, to teach them about life, love, and Jesus.
And to fold the clothes for them for another day, another week, to recognize that someday, I won’t have teeny tiny socks to match. (Or to throw into a basket of singletons. Or to give up mismatch with similar items. It’s the cool thing these days, I tell them. We have a sock eating monster to feed, after all.)
Some days, when I can’t see past the piles of laundry, the muddy floor, and the tears over long division, I remind myself that this is an honor. A privilege. To him whom much is given, much is required. Soldier on.