What do you know before it was even breakfast time those kids were already in the dog house. I will have to take you back further in time for you to understand the full degree of my blood boil.
I had noticed for some time now the kids seemed to think that their clothes were magical. Not sure why, but yes for some reason they thought that those stained, tattered, filthy, lumps of fabric that they left strategically covering every part of the floor you used to be able to see; would actually get up and walk down stairs. Not only walk down stairs but then somehow jump into the machine closing the door behind them and then suddenly reappearfolded neatly in their drawers ready for the next magic show. What you don't believe it either? Yeah me neither. Sooooo if they aren't magical then how are they getting washed you say? Well that is easy. MOM! LEAPING OVer Tall Buildings in a uh well (ok not really but it seams like it). I mean honestly you would think I was trying to rob the Mccallister house the way they have those rooms booby trapped. I tiptoe in there trying not to step on legos, tripping over remote control cars, (insert swear word here) stepping on plastic french fries, stubbing my toe on an easy bake oven, and finally balancing on my one good foot I make my way out covered in glitter and cheetos clutching the prized dirty clothes. Then I use these things God gave me called arms and I put them in the washing machine (ooooo) put in detergent (I know right!) and hit start (Ahhhh) All the peanut butter and jelly sandwhicheeeeeeeessssssssssss! Presto the clothes are clean. Ok well without the sarcasm you can see my point that the laundry isn't that difficult.
My kids however; did not get that memo. Child number 1 has been complaining that he has nothing to wear for the past few weeks. I say well that is because I have cancelled all black ops missions and am only doing the laundry that is in the laundry room. I figured you would notice after you ran out of underwear. Child number 2 over hears the discussion and pipes in that she also has clothes to be washed. I say ok well with it being the weekend I would like both of you to pick up only the DIRTY clothes (They take something out and don't use it and just drop it on the floor, everything gets mixed together and suddenly it's all dirty and I am washing an entire closet full). I tell them I will be doing laundry and that I will no longer do quick loads during the week to meet their urgent need to wear a special shirt. Now that you have seen what I told them, this is what they must have heard: "Continue doing whatever you want I am your servant and yield to you my masters".
I had noticed for some time now the kids seemed to think that their clothes were magical. Not sure why, but yes for some reason they thought that those stained, tattered, filthy, lumps of fabric that they left strategically covering every part of the floor you used to be able to see; would actually get up and walk down stairs. Not only walk down stairs but then somehow jump into the machine closing the door behind them and then suddenly reappear
My kids however; did not get that memo. Child number 1 has been complaining that he has nothing to wear for the past few weeks. I say well that is because I have cancelled all black ops missions and am only doing the laundry that is in the laundry room. I figured you would notice after you ran out of underwear. Child number 2 over hears the discussion and pipes in that she also has clothes to be washed. I say ok well with it being the weekend I would like both of you to pick up only the DIRTY clothes (They take something out and don't use it and just drop it on the floor, everything gets mixed together and suddenly it's all dirty and I am washing an entire closet full). I tell them I will be doing laundry and that I will no longer do quick loads during the week to meet their urgent need to wear a special shirt. Now that you have seen what I told them, this is what they must have heard: "Continue doing whatever you want I am your servant and yield to you my masters".
