Of My Boy

I was squeezing in laundry between baking four dozen muffins and making a week's worth of homemade macaroni and cheese for our children (a recent idea due to the fact that our daughter refuses any form of sandwich - she doesn't even like peanut butter - not even in cookies!).  Thus, I had the washer sitting open, half-full (so optimistic, I know) of dirty laundry with a waiting box of just-released-from-storage maternity clothes waiting for a rinsing, while I rushed over to stir the thickening milk/cheese mixture on the stove.

Enter my precious 14-month-old baby boy.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see him, article of clothing in hand, crawling toward the washer.  Then, lifting himself to his knees, he stuffed the shirt in and hurried back to the waiting box for the next item.  And so it went, shirt after shirt.  He even dug through the box to find items he deemed more worthy of washing and then crawled them over to the machine and shoved them in.  As I helped him finish the job and be sure all was in that would fit, I announced it was all done, at which point, he crawled around me, behind the door and began to push it shut.

My little helper.

I suppose it's a good thing he's so eager to do laundry, considering his newly discovered ability to wipe his mouth on his shirt (or any shirt nearby as yesterday he tugged on the bottom of my tank top to clean his pizza-stained mouth).  I honestly have no idea where he learned this, but it's clear: he's a boy.

Fortunately, he's a laundry-washing boy.