And washing is, well, washing. It's boring and repetitive. There is no beginning, and no end, just an endless cycling of washing and drying and wearing, and then washing all over again. And we don't just wash the clothes. We wash the kids. We wash the noseprints off of the windows, where they paste themselves to say good-bye when you leave. We wash the walls where grimy little hands have left their marks. Those marks creep higher up the wall every year. We wash the dog. And if our husbands are really lucky, we'll even wash the car.

We wipe down the table, and the kitchen, and the bathrooms, day after day, and we tenderly wipe the dirty bottoms of little ones still too young to tend to themselves. We wipe away tears from distraught, crumpled little faces and give mommy kisses and hugs that somehow make it all better.

And, sometimes we wash away our frustrations and our exhaustion with a really good cry. And then we wipe away the tears and start the laundry and remember, that despite the drudgery that might go with the territory, we chose to be here. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

Next intallment coming soon: Ironing
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