I finished washing all of TB’s clothes. His hamper was empty. Empty! It was a day of great rejoicing until he asked, “Do I have a clean swimsuit?” I informed him that I washed everything in his hamper, but that it’s not my job to scour the house looking for his dirty clothes. If his clothes don’t make it in the hamper then they won’t get washed.
TB’s laundry hamper was full. Well, at least he listened to me and put his dirty clothes in the hamper. I washed everything in the hamper, and once again, I exulted in my triumphant accomplishment.
TB’s laundry hamper was half-full. Honestly, where was he stockpiling all of these dirty clothes before he decided to put them in the hamper? Did he space them out so that he will always have enough laundry in his hamper for me to feel it necessary to do a load? Is he that Machiavellian? Despite my trepidation, I washed everything in TB’s hamper, certain that the only articles he could possible put in there would be the ones he was wearing.
TB’s laundry hamper was half-full again.
I decided it must be magic. There is no other logical explanation.