To Fold or Not to Fold

Perfectionism gives way to practicality as Kathryn Pasker Ineck ponders holiness via laundry, of all things.

I’ve (nearly) completely stopped sorting socks and folding underwear. They come directly out of the dryer and are divided into two baskets. Is that enough? Clearly, I’m struggling with it because I’m posing these questions. Will my kids ever know that it bruises my ego every time I skip that step? Will they go to college and beyond, making their way in the world, thinking that it’s not really a “thing” to fold the smalls?

Many moons ago, I realized that I spent a lot of my time on details that aren’t universally considered. I was nearing the end of my daughter’s pregnancy, cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder, chatting with a friend as I ironed and my preschool-aged boys napped. “Why,” I demanded of Carrie, “do we iron crib dust ruffles?!”

The tiny patches of fabric were warring with the iron and I wondered, yet again, whether I ought to buy a quilting iron for my kids’ tiny collars and dresses. “We don’t” Carrie countered, laughing, “you do!”

I immediately abandoned the iron, slipped the dust ruffle under the crib mattress, spritzed the ruffle with water, and pulled it straight with my fingers. Done. The ruffle wasn’t as pressed as I would have liked, but it was better than creases from an unwieldy iron.

If I’ve made concessions with the way I think things ought to be done, then why not teach my kids to do their own laundry? After all, it would free my time, give them responsibility to take care of themselves, and teach them an important life skill. Here is my confession: I actually love doing laundry. I love making order out of chaos, and I love erasing dirt and stains.

Weird.

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I remember washing and folding the very first load of baby clothes just before our oldest son was born. I bought a box of baby detergent and stood at the kitchen table, folding a sea of green and yellow baby-scented onesies, sleepers, rompers, and blankets and imagining the tiny body that would soon wear them. Would it be a boy? A girl? Soon after our sweet son was born, we added another son, and the laundry piled high (it seemed to have tripled with the addition of that second child!), and later I decided to save money by using cloth diapers. More laundry. More folding. I loved it!

There was something comforting and satisfying about the regular movements of my hands folding clean laundry, and seeing tidy stacks of fabric. In A Way of the Cross for Mothers, J. Katherine Reilly points out that just as we concern ourselves for so many years with our children’s clothing, “Tradition says that Mary wove and fashioned the garments that were ripped from Jesus at Calvary” (10th Station).

She further explains that “Hands are such a beautiful part of mothering … Our hands become the tools with which cookies are baked, tears are smoothed away, fevers are detected, and Halloween costumes are made. They will applaud recitals and home-runs, and help pack up for college” (11th Station).

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Doing the laundry is an act of love in service, a corporal work of mercy, that I don’t want to give up just yet. #catholicmom

Over the years, we added two more children. The cloth diapers are now dusting cloths and their garments steadily grow larger and less … sweet. Which explains the basket of underwear and the basket of socks: how in the world do I have the time to sort between all of these similarly sized garments? They aren’t distinguishable by much beyond brand name and they are definitely no longer cute. Which still begs the question: why don’t they do it themselves?

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Most of the time, I wedge time sorting and folding clothes into 15-minute time slots here, 30 minutes there. Sometimes, that time is flustered or irritated or quiet. Often, it’s an evening spent binging TV shows with the kids while one tackles washcloths and another tackles socks (they are folded, after all, even if they aren’t sorted.) They do help me.

I don’t ask them to take over, though, because I pray for them and my husband as I fold their clothes, no matter what is going on around me. It’s an act of love in service, a corporal work of mercy, that I don’t want to give up just yet.