“You make food. You make clothes. You make friends. You make love.”
It is my Wednesday morning tutoring session and I am explaining to my student, Ana, that the Spanish verb hacer can translate as both do and make, depending.
“Oh!” she says, paying close attention. “This is important!”
Gratified by her eagerness, I start in on do, but somehow the examples do not leap to mind as easily. We are always doing things, of course, but what, exactly, do we do?
“You do homework. You do work...” I hesitate, thinking.
“Laundry!” I say at last. “You do laundry! With three children, I do laundry every day.”
Ana has three children, too, so I ask, “Do you do laundry everyday?”
“Lavanderia?” She nods. “Yes, I do laundry every day.”
I groaned sympathetically. “Laundry is my least favorite chore,” I say and immediately regret it, thinking that now I will have to explain least, too. “I don’t like doing laundry,” I explain, making a face and waiting for her to agree.
But Ana just smiles and shakes her head. “I like do laundry. I like clean bathrooms.” She gestures at the kitchen. “Thank God dishwasher. I like cook but no like clean....”
I gape at her. “You like laundry? What do you like about it?”
She holds an imaginary piece of clothing to her cheek and inhales deeply. I like how it smells, she says, lapsing into Spanish.
I tsk, tsk at her gently. “English,” I remind her.
In broken English and expressive gestures, she goes on. She loves breathing in the scent of her husband and children on their laundry. She loves how, holding her sons’ and daughter’s clothes, she can remember them when they were little and see so clearly how they’ve grown. Ana’s English is halting, but her answer is eloquent. I feel a little ashamed at the trite distaste I have just expressed for a chore that, in her telling, epitomizes all the poignancy of motherhood.
“That’s a good perspective,” I say. “I’ll try to see it that way.” In my mind’s eye, I see myself trudging to the laundry room with an armful of dirty laundry, breathing through my mouth. Well, maybe not the smell part, I think, but the other part....
Putting up laundry, more than any other chore, makes me grumpy. Because I dislike it, I avoid doing it, so the baskets of clean clothes hang out around the house much longer than they should. Unlike the grungy kitchen floor (which our new tile disguises beautifully) or the toothpaste stains on the kids’ bathroom sink (which I rarely use), they are a constant visual reminder that there is work to do which I haven’t done. And it never, ever ends! I can wash and put away every article of dirty laundry in the house, but then the kids strip for their nightly bath and the hamper is half-full again.
As I leave Ana’s house, I wonder if I could really change my perspective on laundry so drastically. That afternoon, as I hang the kids’ clothes out on the line, I try. I look at Clayton’s Scooby-Doo underpants and notice how sweet they really are. With a pang, I wonder how soon he will insist on abandoning such little boy things.
Then there are Sylvia’s pretty little dresses, Dee Dee’s shorts and t-shirts. Dee Dee has abandoned dresses only recently; they do not fit her new self image. “I’m not a girly-girl,” she tells us indignantly, groaning as she consents to wear a dress to the “Manners Banquet” at her preschool. Sylvia, on the other hand, loves her clothes. She will spend long minutes in front of the mirror, admiring herself from every angle, while Dee Dee bustles through her project-packed day. Both girls recently started soccer. But whereas Dee Dee actually enjoys the sport, Sylvia mostly likes the outfit. “I’m pretty cute dressed up as soccer player,” I can almost hear her thinking.
When the laundry is hung, I feel proud of my effort, but I’m not convinced. It seems unlikely that I will now see the eternal basket of clean laundry as a vehicle for nostalgia or an opportunity for reflection. And do I even want to? I admit that I’m a bit attached to the sympathetic noises Don makes when I complain about the laundry. What kind of martyr would I be if I actually liked doing it?
I also find myself reflecting on the very notion of emotion. If I can make myself like laundry, can I also make myself feel happy when I don’t? Fake it ‘til you make it, people seem to say a lot these days. Pretend to be happy, confident, secure, and-- low and behold-- you will be!
But what about the darker side, I wonder. I was raised to listen to those not-so-nice feelings. Are you feeling anxious? Jealous? Sad? That’s okay. All you have to do is put your finger on what’s wrong, then put it into words. I took that message so much to heart that when I was ten years old, I sat at our piano and, knowing absolutely nothing about music, composed a little song. “Talk about your feelings, and they will go away,” I sang, proudly showing my parents the musical staff where I’d colored in the notes. Later, when my sister’s best friend tried to play it, actually reading the notes I had drawn, I was indignant. “That isn’t how it goes!” And anyway, the tune was not the point!
This emphasis on discerning emotions and then voicing them has stayed with me, sometimes to a fault. With nearly ten years of marriage behind me, I am slowly learning that not every wounded feeling must be paraded out and discussed. Still, I’m not about to throw the baby out with the bathwater.
Clayton, for example, is prone to moodiness. He can be exuberantly joyful at times; frustratingly morose at others. When he follows me around the house, moping and lamenting, I sometimes lose my patience. “What is wrong?” I ask him. “There is absolutely nothing wrong! Just be happy!”
“But I just feel sad!” he cries out, bursting into tears.
And it is this simple statement, so much more than all his empty laments, that makes my sympathy rise at last. I know what that’s like-- just to feel sad. Everything is fine. You have a comfortable home and a beautiful family, good friends and a job you enjoy. There’s absolutely nothing wrong, and yet....
“Oh, sweetheart,” I say, hugging him. “I know.”
It is a relief for him to say it, I think. When he says things like “There’s nothing to look forward to!” it is too easy to disagree with him. Of course there is! But-- “I just feel sad!” Well, that’s the truth of it, and who doesn’t understand what that’s like? And maybe it’s the tears, or maybe it’s his mama’s hug, or maybe it’s the naming of it, but pretty soon he’s back to his cheerful self again.
Probably this has very little to do with laundry. But I do know this: I am going to try to enjoy doing laundry a little more. For that matter, I might as well try to enjoy the grime and chaos of our home as the by-product of five-- make that nine-- living creatures leading full and busy lives. Still, I’m not going to be surprised when I look at the baskets of clothes that still need to be sorted and put way and feel something other than joy. Because, let’s face it. Sometimes laundry is just a chore, and sometimes.... Well, sometimes you just feel sad.
