Tuesdays are unofficial “Laundry Days” in our household. I say unofficial because, generally speaking, each Tuesday comes and goes with little to no pomp and circumstance. And, even though the event is announced to the public (my husband and kids) in advance (the night before), it seems I am the only person in the house who participates in the ritual. Every freaking week. But I’m not bitter. Much.

So, three Tuesdays ago, I went through my usual routine of: 1. gathering all the kids dirty clothes from upstairs, 2. taking them to the laundry room, 3. sorting them, and 4. performing the necessary pre-treating, washing, drying, and folding, before 5. putting the then-clean clothes back in their appropriate closets and/or dresser drawers.

I finished washing the third or fourth load and threw it into the dryer. Started the dryer, and went back to sitting on the couch eating bon-bons scrubbing toilets. About five minutes passed, and I realized that I had been subconsiously hearing some unknown repetitive noise.

Repetitive noises drive me crazy. Short drive, I know.

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