What a tremendous feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction to haul that FINAL load of newly washed baby laundry into the house, or at the very least to watch Hubby haul it! As we trudged home after an exhausting day of celebration on the Fourth, Hubby dropped the bag of fragrant receiving blankets, boppy covers and quilts on the front step and headed back to the car to retrieve Princess who was still fast asleep in the back row of the minivan. I grabbed the bag and dropped it just behind my favorite espresso-colored leather chair near our front entrance-way to chase down Drama Queen, who despite a day of activity still had the energy of a racehorse.

We were all in safe and sound and tending to our bedtime routine, while the laundry sat there compliments of Grandma who couldn’t bear to think of me going up and down the stairs to the laundry-room even one more time, and, in her compassion, offered to launder the final three loads.  Oh, beautiful baby stuff, washed, fluffed and folded with love just waiting to be sniffed and stowed carefully amidst the other “ready for baby” gear!

Lo and behold, I awoke around three AM, still stunned by what must have been at least two or three nightmares by that time, and thought: “I’d better move that bag of laundry out of the entrance-way before Hubby thinks I’ve left him another bag of unoffensive trash to dispose of.”  If you know me and you know Hubby personally, then you’d understand me thinking that at three AM, for sure. So on my way back from one of my many overnight potty breaks, I stumbled sleepily to the living room to move the bag… which turned out to be GONE!

themommykelly (panicking to Hubby, fast asleep on the couch after hours of research, laptop on his chest, Internet open to the most incomprehensible of construction sites): “X, where is the bag of baby laundry?”

Hubby (aka Ding-Dong): “What? Huh? What laundry? What are you talking about?”

themommykelly (now just on the edge of freaking out): “The bag of CLEAN baby laundry that YOU bought in from the car and I put right here behind the chair!”

Hubby: “That wasn’t laundry, it was trash. I took it out!”  

themommykelly (now blurting out non-publishable explicative at Ding-dong): “What is wrong with you?! That was laundry! You emptied the trash before we left this morning. Please, go get the bag out of the trash bin, NOW!”

Hubby: (sleeply, still not the least bit ruffled and NOT moving because, yes, HIS mother probably would have left the bag right where it was and gone no further than airing the laundry out for a few days before using it) “Um, I’ll get it in a few hours. It’s pouring rain and I am not going out in the rain to get it.”

themommykelly (now really pissed off and crying at the thought that Hubby expected HER pregnant and all, the non-laundry-dumping-culprit to  go out in the rain and retrieve the bag): “A few hours?! Please, please, please, X! Go get it now!”

Hubby (sounding strangely like his four-year old Princess and two year old Drama Queen): “NO!”

themommykelly: “I am not leaving this room until you do.”

Hubby: “fine… explicative, explicative, (out the front door, to the trash, back in) explicative, explicative, explicative.” (dropping the bag at the front entrance, for themommykelly to puke over and laying back on the couch)

Needless to say, being the germaphobe that I am (it’s a family thing) and coming from generations of Italians who to this day wash their floors more often than their own bodies (something we Italian-Americans have fortunately grown past. Showers are at the top of our list.) I immediately felt it necessary to empty the bag, dispose of it and assess the damage. Oh. My. Goodness! Puke I nearly did. My first instinct was to haul it all out and dump it again, but the thought of parting with the heirloom pieces and items of priceless sentimental value nearly caused my knees to buckle out from under me.  

The next hour included a dash down the stairs to the laundry room arms overflowing with the stinky, yet fortunately untouched baby accoutrements, (we have trash pick-up on Thursdays) excessive amounts of Dreft and bleach, a thorough cleaning of the front hallway, way too much disinfectant air spray and a much needed shower at about 3:50 AM. Yes, you read correctly, a shower at 3:50 AM! All of this observed silently from the couch by the Ding-Dong who wasn’t about to apologize for his mistake OR help. It wasn’t until about two days and ten full soak, wash and rinse cycles later - including such detergents as those named above, plus a large bottle of peroxide, a half a gallon of white vinegar and a box of baking soda - that I could even bear to think of deeming the baby laundry once again baby-worthy.

So there you have the tale of Ding-Dong and The Great Laundry Fiasco. Anyone up for a Ding-Dong swap? I swear, my Ding-Dong can beat yours in a race of ding-dongedness anyday!

P.S. to my Ding-Dong aka Hubby. I still love you despite your lack of compassion!