Laundering Life

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Part of my old job involved doing laundry for the classroom. I, like most typically raised and healthy people, looked at this as an annoying errand to be avoided. However, the kids I worked with were so starved for positive quality time with an adult, that they leapt at the chance to help out. If they saw us walking out the door with a basket, they generally asked to join us.

Originally, I could not understand their perspective. I hated doing laundry. I thought it was obnoxious, and, if I could, I would avoid it at all costs. Then, one particular trip changed all that.

I invited a child who had been working through something by shunning me and ignoring my attempts to spend time with him. I expected him to say no, but it didn't stop me from trying. Upon his refusal, a second child jumped up, lego jalopy in hand, and excitedly requested to join me. On our way out the door, the first child, slightly red in the face, abruptly changed his mind. Surprised, I obliged, and the three of us headed down the hallway, along with their feline driven lego vehicles.

The first child predictably ignored me throughout the walk. He didn't want to hold the basket, and he wasn't going to answer any of my questions. The second child, a curious comedian, chattered away between revving engines and an interjecting kitty pilot. He asked numerous questions about his favorite fictional characters and our existence in this world. Unaware of his own intent, the child began to pick at some startlingly deep philosophical subjects. Three steps ahead, the first child pretended to ignore us, but I made mental note of his slowing steps and sideways glances in our direction.

At the dryer, I stood back as the two boys divvied up the task of folding towels and filling the basket. I offered to help, but the burgeoning gentlemen denied my request. When they finished, the basket weighed more than each of them individually. With their lego contraptions in hand, it seemed difficult to believe they could manage it. I asked if they would like assistance, but they explained that they could do it together. So, they each grabbed a side with their tiny hands, and we set off back down the hall at a snail's pace. The basket began to list, and I offered to help once more. But, these boys were proud to be of use, and they understandably wanted to sustain that feeling.

As we neared the classroom, one of the lego kitties steered their car chaotically, and the basket careened out of control. Not wanting to hurt the boys' pride, but knowing one error could translate to complete failure in their minds, I casually slipped a finger under the back ridge and stabilized the load.

The second child sighed audibly and smiled at me.

"You make me feel happy," he said.

The first child slowed, looked the other direction, and muttered under his breath,

"Me too."

To these kids laundry was not a menial burden. It was an opportunity. This beautifully monotonous task provided them with the chance to demonstrate a skill, test out trust, and prove their worth. For a few brief moments, they got to walk alone with an adult outside of their chaotic environment. They could use the time to inquire about their deepest concerns or simply to experience the solace of safe companionship. They could experiment with showing appreciation under the guise of completing a required errand, and they were able to experience reciprocity.

When I looked at it through their eyes, this irritating obligation became something so monumental. It became an opportunity for people to spend time together, build a bond, and remind one another that they care.