Piles, Piles & More Piles: A Love Story Between Me and the Laundry

Somewhere in my house, laundry is breeding.

That’s the only explanation I have. Because I did laundry recently. I remember it. I folded things. I put some of them away. And yet here I am today, surrounded by piles and piles of laundry, wondering if my washing machine is secretly running a clothing rental program for the entire neighborhood.

Laundry day always starts with optimism. I’ll just knock out a few loads today. Three hours later, I’m on load number six, questioning how we own 47 socks but only 12 of them match. Where do the missing ones go? Is there a sock witness protection program? A secret portal? I may never know.

Every pile has its own personality. The “clean but not folded” pile. The “folded but not put away” pile. The “I wore this once but it’s definitely not clean” pile. And my personal favorite: the “this is clean, but no one trusts it” pile that lives permanently on a chair.

Folding laundry is where my motivation officially leaves my body. Washing? Fine. Drying? Easy. Folding? Absolutely not. Suddenly I remember 37 other things I should be doing—like reorganizing a junk drawer or staring at my phone while sitting on the floor next to the basket.

And let’s talk about how laundry is never actually done. You finish a load, feel proud for approximately 4.6 seconds, and then someone changes clothes. A towel appears. A hoodie emerges from under a bed. Congratulations—you are now behind again.

Still, there’s something comforting about it. These piles mean my people are home. They’re living hard, playing messy, changing outfits like it’s a fashion show I didn’t sign up for. The laundry is proof that life is happening, even if it’s happening in sweatpants.

So today, I’ll fold what I can, shove the rest back into baskets, and call it progress. If we run out of clean socks, we’ll simply lower our standards. Barefoot builds character, right?

Here’s to the moms knee-deep in laundry, doing their best, laughing through the chaos, and accepting that the laundry will never be finished—but somehow, we always keep going.