Airing My Dirty Laundry.....

I have resentment toward my laundry......it always looks at me with a smug entitled look that I can't stand....like it deserves to be washed instead of lying there in piles.
I don't mind a good sort every now and again.....putting clothes in piles of color is a bit fulfilling.  I admit that is a little on the OCD side.
I can even put it in the washer and add all of the fantasticly scented detergent.  Let's be honest.  I buy for scent.
But then it comes to taking it out of the washer and I find myself staring off into space, distracted by other more interesting things.  I could be reading or sleeping or eating or shaving my legs or staring at the wall.  I don't like the work that comes along with drying the clothes.  First you have to decide if you are going to put each piece of clothing into the dryer.  I hang lots of items.....er well, I should hang lots of items.  Mostly I drape many items because Maimy is too lazy to go to each bedroom and collect hangers.  Then, if I am really on a laundry roll, I run out of room.  This dilema will not cause Maimy or I to break down and get hangers.  It's just too unpleasant and frankly taxing on the system to troll the closets for hangers, plus my ADD will kick in and I will get distracted by some other chores rolling their eyes and waiting for a turn.
May I complain here about taking the clothes out of the dryer?  How many times is it legal to 'fluff' the clothes because you forgot they were there?  If my clothes were my children.......well I won't go there.....'neglect' would the the optimum word here.  DCFS would get a report that I left my little darlings in a car with the windows up.
Let's say I finally get to the stuck up, self righteous clothes that made it through the dry cycles.  And they are smug, let me tell you.  Now they feel like they deserve to be put away, and promptly. 
I like to make them wait a little.  Take them down a notch or two.  So I sling them over the upstairs railing....sorted by person of ownership of course.  And just because I like to show them whose boss.....I may let them stay there for more than a day....sometimes with hangers inserted into their little necks.  That's right.....I tease them......and then let 'em sweat it out.
I know you'll be surprised here, but Maimy hates to hang the clothes in the closet.  She gets a little anxiety ridden.  I like to color code my closets.  That is perfectly normal and acceptable behavior.  If you haven't tried it, I highly suggest you do.  But if you start to run out of hangers or the clothes start to press against each other in a snug, personal space invading sort of manner......well, I breath a little more heavy and I start to feel unsettled.  It's just too much work for clothes with an attitude.  And once it's done, it will be no time at all before they are back in the laundry room.......right where they started, with a little "I told you so," smirk pasted all over their dirty little faces.

The Second Time Around

So that's about all I remember from the second baby.  Superman hid behind a hunting magazine for a few hours and pretended I wasn't white knuckling it 4 feet away.

I've never claimed to have a handle on my emotions.  When I came to the realization that I may have to deliver the second child....I bluntly told Dr. D that I would not return after the 36th week of gestation unless I was knocked out cold and unawares.  Living up to my end of the bargain, I refused to make further appointments or discuss the possibility of giving birth. 
Duty had called loud and long.  Superman was at the 2002 Olympics keeping us safe from terrorists.  This aloneness really helped me compartmentalize...I found it quite easy to pretend that I was not 9 months pregnant. 
Dr. D, realizing that I truthfully intended to never return, called in a little treat to the pharmacy.  He felt that if he could, in fact, render me unconscious, someone could perhaps drag me to the hospital.  Superman returned from his post in time to pick up the drugs just as the contractions began.  Knowing that I would put up a struggle if he suggested that medical attention may be imminent....he brought home a little bottle of sleepy dust.
Anxiety has long been a companion of mine.  I am curious ....... does anyone else have that thing where the fear of what is to come in the morning stops you from going to sleep because the dreaded event will come faster?  Well that is about where we were sitting.  I knew the contractions were leading somewhere.  I tried to play it down, but I am sure that trying to lock myself in the bathroom piqued Superman's keen senses. Night was coming on and he knew that he was going to have to get me to the hospital by morning.  If he could just get me to eat the little doggy treat stuffed with Ambien.......home free.  I wasn't giving up without a fight.  On one hand being drugged and comatose would really aleviate the intense sense of doom...but the sooner you go nighty night, the sooner you are propped up on a table naked.  Not in the good sense....where you are dancing to boom chicka bow wow and making cash hand over fist, but the bad sense where there are blood and guts falling out of your bottom.  Superman calmly and lovingly tried to get me to partake of fruit.  Nu uh.  He became testy.  At one point he held me down.  Feeling backed into a corner I took the little pill and put it in my ear.  It pains me to admit that childish act, but you really have to understand how much I hate every part of labor and delivery........I hate it right up to the point where you are one year post partum.  You would think a man trained to detect deceit would have picked up on this......it took some time.  Finally when I didn't pass out cold, he became suspicious.  After grilling me under a 100 watt light bulb in a dark room and smashing my fingers in the desk drawer, I copped to the fact that the drugs were in my ear.  The only thing I remember after that was everything taking on a blue cast and not being able to use my legs.  I became cognizant at the hospital when the nurse in her best cheerleader voice chirped, 'Oh my heck.....are you so excited to have a baby today?"  I immediatley burst into tears and said, "NO!"  She hooked me up to an IV anyway. 
Superman, not learning his lesson the previous time, lent me his fingers to grasp while the anesthetist used a screwdriver to give me an epidural.  Once he regained the use of his bloody hand, he picked up a hunting magazine and didn't speak to me again until it was baby birthin' time. He requested more ringers be hung on the IV pole in order to block his view.  He didn't understand yet that only one of us could be scared witless...and it was my turn.  Luckily, my babies have been coached from the pre-existance and they are able to birth themselves, as I am useless with fright.  The Farm Boy appeared quick as a blink:)