Last night, I'm getting my groove on folding laundry while listening to music. Mr W and everyone else had turned in, and I was taking advantage of a burst of energy--having a few minutes of no "mommy!" can do that.
There was a load of jeans in the dryer, and I thought they sounded kind of loud, but chalked it up to the metal buttons on the various waistbands. Oh, well. A few minutes into this, out comes Mr W, and I said to him that if the noise was bugging him, he could start it up again in the morning when he got up, no big deal. But instead, he opens up the dryer, and moves stuff around, and I'm thinking, what's he doing? He stands up, and turns to me triumphantly, holding out his hand...and shows me the large rock he just found amongst the clothes.
It appears I've forgotten rule #33 from the "Living with Boys" handbook: CHECK their pockets before you wash their pants. All those years, watching my Mom pull all kinds of ungodly stuff out of my little brother's pants, and I drop the ball? I swear, she once pulled out a lizard...
I know better than this, I once joked to a friend that I have the cleanest rock collection in the East Valley, thanks to the boys. Now that Audrey is in on the act too, I'm thinking of adding a geology division to the garage.
The time it'll take checking the pockets is a small price to pay compared to having to replace my washer and dryer. I may be old school when it comes to certain things, but I'm not so old school that I'm willing to pound clothes outside against a rock to get them clean. Nope, hand me the Cheer and let's go!
Speaking of laundry, my dryer is just about finished with this morning's load. I'm trying to finish up, because later this a.m. I have to take Ryan to the doctor.
He has some weirdo rash, and it's freaking me out. It's fine, all over his torso, you can kinda see it on his face...but he has no other symptoms. I know it's probably nothing, and my pediatrician will pat me on the head, say 'viral rash' and send me on my way. But there's just something about rashes that give me the willies. We all have our 'don't do that' medical moments, for example, Mr W doesn't do vomit unless I'm puking too and he has no choice; and I have a friend who's husband gets woozy at the sight of even a drop of blood. For me, it's rashes. I shudder just thinking about it, but I'm the Mom, I don't really get to be obvious..."Um, sugar, could you (UGH, shudder) take yourself to Daddy and let him check that out? Because you're making me want to hurl..." Nope. Yesterday, when I noticed something off, I had him show his Dad too (gotta share the joy) and Dad goes "oh, I think I can see it..." ??? "THINK you can see it? Dude, he's covered..." This morning, I look again, <shudder> and it's still there. Oh, hell no, we're going to the trained professional on this one, I'm getting something for that because I just can't look at it anymore.
Maybe he'll give me a little something as well. You know, to "calm my nerves." The odds aren't good on that happening, but you never know...