I’m grateful I don’t have my own washing machine. I never thought I’d see it as anything other than an inconvenience.
When I first moved into my apartment last year, it had no laundry hookups, but the property was cheap, and there was a laundromat a few blocks away. I’m a father of two children, coparenting with their mother, who lives five minutes away. Finding a two-bedroom apartment on one income in Blacksburg, Virginia, was no easy feat. Most of the housing is for wealthy Virginia Tech students from upstate.
I soon came to view not having a washing machine as a reliable excuse to see my parents, something I’ve lately come to dread, because one of them is in cognitive decline.
It’s hard to see my parents regularly, but now, I have a reason
My parents live 20 minutes away in Salem. Life is busy, and it’s hard to see them regularly. Last year, my father was diagnosed with dementia, and his mental decline came down swiftly. He talks a lot less than he used to, and he sometimes asks astounding questions. “Where’s the basement?” “How many boys do you have?”
I can hardly talk to the man who raised me anymore. Some days I don’t want to face it. But if I tell myself my laundry basket is overflowing, I have to go. I’m glad I have a tangible, practical reason to show up, one without the emotional weight of saying, “I’m here because I’m scared to lose you, and it’s hard to see you because I’ve already lost a part of you.”
It always works. Mom greets my heavy laundry-basket-laden self with a smile. My consolation for using her detergent is folding everything myself. My dad, in his confusion, asks why the boys aren’t in school.
Of course, my ROI isn’t so bad either. A trip to see them probably costs around $5, whereas a trip to the laundromat can put me out $15, and there, I don’t get any family time. I can read a book while I wait for the coin dryer, but I can’t put my hand on my dad’s shoulder.
Laundry, of all things, has brought us together
Sometimes, we wait for the right moment to do the important, the difficult. We delay hard conversations and postpone checking in on those who might need us. We can be emotionally lazy. But sometimes, the simplest, most mundane task is what it takes to bring us together.
The day will come when my dad won’t recognize me at all. One day, my mom won’t be there to call me and ask how the boys are doing. One day, I’ll have my very own washer and dryer. That is a convenience I can wait on. An excuse to see my family is not.
So until then, I’ll keep hauling my sheets in the back of my Avalon up I-81 and back. Not really for the laundry. For the way my mom hiccups over her coffee while we work on a crossword puzzle. For the faces my dad makes to get a laugh out of me, like I’m still 6 years old. Then he asks me a specific question about my latest writing job, or tells me and the boys another story before the fog settles back in.
Laundry at Mom’s enabled me to spend Mother’s Day helping her rebalance her Maytag so she didn’t have to call a repairman. It also gave me one more lucid moment with my dad, a memory about his days coaching football.
I often wonder if one day I’ll have to move back in with my parents. I also wonder if I’ll ever afford a house with a laundry room. For now, laundry is the perfect cover for a weekend visit to Mom and Dad.
