Laundry Saturdays

It’s his weekend again. One weekend on, one weekend off. Two days on, two days off. Rinse repeat, that’s his cycle. Because he only gets every other weekend off, simple ordinary household chores now become strategic missions. He plans his days off with military-like precision. Run and breakfast at 0700 hours, pick up the girls by 0830, off to the laundromat. His ultimate mission? Seeing all of the household tasks are complete while making sure he gives his little girls the attention he knows they have been craving, and if he’s being honest he’s been yearning for it too. So, to the laundromat, they go. The old Ford he’s driving squeaks to a halt in the parking lot. He turns off the engine simultaneously shutting off the music and is met with disapproving groans from the backseat. “That’s Britney’s new song, Daddy! From her movie,” his older one protests while the little one is still humming along, “doo doo dooo.” “Sorry, sweetie, maybe the radio station will be on inside. We gotta get through this Laundry Saturday and then the rest of the day is up to you girls, promise.” 

He smiles back at them. His two prized possessions look so tiny in the backseat bookended between laundry hampers filled to the brim with articles of clothing telling the story of their week. A grass-stained soccer jersey, his older one scoring her first goal on Thursday night. Peanut Butter decorating the belly of a sparkly leotard, his little one needed a snack after ballet practice. A favorite blankie stained with red fruit punch…that will be fun to get out. His favorite sweatpants, and the old blue down comforter…their weekly movie night campout on the living room floor will not be complete without it. 

He balances feelings of guilt and responsibility internally while he balances a laundry basket and detergent in the other hand. His older one is wheeling the other hamper while holding her little sister’s hand as they cross the parking lot. Most kids their age are sleeping in on Saturday, not helping their single Dad with his laundry. Most kids their age, he marvels, probably have no idea how to even begin doing laundry. If he can’t offer them the little luxuries like waking up to a pancake breakfast or spending Saturday morning enjoying cartoons instead of chores, at least he knows he is raising grounded girls. A tickle of pride flutters through his heart. He’s thankful for his little helpers. The rows of washers lit up under the harsh fluorescent lighting like little soldiers all lined up waiting to help him attack the Saturday morning chore with the efficiency of a small army. He could tackle the mountain of laundry at his apartment, which is equipped with only an old washer and a sometimes working dryer. But rather thank stalking the apartment laundry room for an opening, he opts to knock out this chore the most efficient way he knows how…we are on a timeline here, remember? 

“Alright girls, you know the drill,” he bellows, and they’re off. This military Dad has his girls familiarized with their weekend drill. Both daughters taking to her post. The little one with her coloring book finds an open seat at the old Formica table in the corner. The older one helps him sort lights from darks and takes the comforter and sheets to the large washer. Mature beyond her 11 years, he watches her load up the washer, and deposit just the exact amount of change and detergent needed to get the job done. She reports to his side after loading the washer, “What’s next, Dad? Need me to take your uniforms?” She grabs the pile of dirty fatigues before he can answer. With a tired smile, he nods. He had to work late last night and could have waited to pick up the girls’ from their mom, until this evening. But as we’ve established already, time is of the essence. Laundry waits for no one, and like an hourglass, their time together on the weekend does not have a pause button. 

Once all the baskets are empty, their contents unloaded into the industrial-sized washing machines. He can rest for about 20 minutes. The whirling and whooshing of the wash cycles almost put him which is a testament to how tired he truly is. Who could fall asleep under these harsh florescent lights? He’s stopped from dozing off by a little tap at his shoulder. “Daddy,” a quiet brings him back to reality, “can I have my quarters now? I want time to think about my choice.” Every weekend they spend at the laundromat he gives the girls every 50 cents. This has been their little tradition since they were old enough to understand that in order to get the treats from the gum-ball machine, or pop dispenser requires money. His little one especially looks forward to this treat. She will wait until the very last minute as the car is being packed back up with the now clean laundry to make her purchasing decision. He can almost see her wheels turning as she weighs the pros and cons between choosing a candy bar or a can of orange soda. He relents and digs into his pockets for her advance payment. “Whoo Whoo!” She squeals and is off to study the inventory at vending machines.

Buzzzzz. The washing machines coming to a whirling stop. His older one and he start tag teaming transferring the wet clothes into the jumbo dryers. They opt for the drums, the big guys that can hold “up to 50 pounds” of clothing. The deluxe dryers cost an extra 25 cents each but the 20 minutes they will save is so worth it. The hands of the old clock tick along, and before he knows its time is up. He enlists the help of both girls to do the folding. They each tackle their own pile of clothing. The stains and wear of the week have been washed clean, until their next weekend together when they repeat the cycle. Wash, rinse, dry, fold, repeat. The weekend cycle here is complete. 

His little one takes off to the vending machine to make her final purchasing decision. Her older sister accompanies her and announces that she’s going for the Cherry Cola this week, her favorite. He tells them to come out to the car after they’re done getting their vending machine treats. He sets out to start packing up the car with the hampers. The girls are coming out now, and they’ll climb back into the car this time to be sandwiched between hampers of clean clothes catching whiffs of “fresh rain,” scented fabric softener. He pauses as he notices the girls are empty-handed, no candy bars or Cherry Colas. “Ladies, saving up your quarters?” They stay quiet, stealing a knowing sisterly glance at one another. “Girls?” He prompts again. The older one gestures toward the parking lot, he follows her gaze to a man in battered and worn fatigues. A figure who was probably at one time as fit as he, now sits slumped in the parking lot, resting against the corner of the laundromat. The gentleman holds a tattered sign, Homeless Vet, anything helps. God Bless. “Girls, did you give your quarters away?” He chokes back tears. “We didn’t give them away Dad, he needed them more,” his older one remarks. “I wish we could have Laundry Saturday, every day” the little one squeals, “that way I would have more quarters to give the nice solider.” He hugs them and tells them he’s proud of them. Even though pride doesn’t even begin to describe the swell he feels in his heart right now. “Well, you two have just earned yourself a pancake breakfast at the diner!” He’s met with applause as they excitedly pack into the car. 

Breakfast is delicious. But the laughs and quality time spent is even sweeter. The girls exchange stories of their week. The little one keeps them laughing as she recounts the latest Kindergarten dramas…something about a gerbil being let loose after a show and tell gone wrong. On their way back from the diner, they make pitstop back to a familiar parking lot. They say their goodbyes, and exchange a series of “see you next time,” pleasantries. The girls make sure he takes the leftovers, the little one even tries to insist he takes her favorite blankie. You see, their Laundry Saturday crew gained a plus one that morning. The girls had insisted on inviting the fellow solider to breakfast. Turns out, you can teach children a lot by spending a Saturday doing a simple household chore.