Three hours later, a record for quick response, Son One ambles to the dryer for sock duty. The dryer door creaks open. Someone besides me is about to do laundry. They’re playing my song.
There’s a pause.
Son One is 23 and quite mature. He holds a responsible job, doesn’t mind being seen in public with his mother as long as she’s paying for dinner, and watches “My Little Ponies Friendship Is Magic” on Saturdays. He also mows down zombies like they were tall grass, but that’s a separate skill set.
“There’s underpants in here!”
“Of course there are. I wash all the whites together. It’s economical.”
“Where are the tongs?”
“Oh, Good Lord. It won’t kill you to touch underwear. Cuff your socks and leave the rest."
“So many underpants!”
How have I raised a child who goes all white around the dryer seal when confronted with underwear? When I was kid we trudged to the laundromat on the corner every Saturday. I played jacks on the concrete floor while Mama sorted whites and colors. Some days I wasn’t sure the underwear I came home with was the same underwear that was in the drawer the week before.
Times have changed. Today kids wear their waistband around their knees. They think cleavage is found in the back.
I trudge down the hall where Kid One is sorting through unmentionables with a stick and pull a pile of socks from the back of the dryer.
It just goes to show you. Give a child a pair of socks and his feet are warm for a day. Teach him to poke them with a stick and you’re stuck with laundry duty forever.