And So It Begins

No, I'm not in the early stages of labor. I'm the in the early stages of insanity.

As if my laundry skills weren't already horribly lacking, I experienced my first Buried Mom moment today. My boss's sister-in-law has a son who is, judging from this wonderful gift, well beyond infancy and approaching toddlerhood. I was gifted yesterday with three garbage bags full of clothing. Two of the bags, thankfully, were in a size range I have none of: 12-24 months. I spent the evening sorting through and evaluating what I'd like to keep (I'm only junking a few things, and only because they're covered in paint from craft time).

I put one round of the 12-24 month range in the dryer last night because things seemed a bit on the damp side (which I actually liked because it showed the mom was polite) and I didn't want things rotting in storage. I walked in this morning to transfer the towels I had let soak overnight to the dryer. As I was pulling the small clothing from the dryer, I smiled. My first quasi-laundry load for my son. A milestone I had never considered, yet found oddly heart lightening.

I started the water in the washer and began sorting the 0-6 month range to wash. Watching all the little socks and hats and onesies float and swirl around in the water struck terror into my heart. If I can't keep up with Bryan's black socks or my bras, how on earth can I be expected to keep up with Levi's ridiculously tiny (but oh so cute!) socks?

So it begins.