Eva seems to think that our washing machine is a gas chamber or a vicious monster that feeds on blankets. Every week when I try to launder her blanket, she refuses to let me put it into the washer. Every week. I have to say, “Is that a rabbit over there?” and then shove it into the machine on the sly. Otherwise she’ll grab it out of the laundry pile and run away screaming and crying. She also shouts, “It’s all clean! It’s all clean!” in an effort to make me think I’ve already washed it but somehow forgotten. She obviously thinks that my brain is decrepit.
I understand she loves the blanket and that it’s been with her since birth, but I don’t believe that is any excuse for having it smell like soiled underwear. Her underwear smells soiled and we don’t need redundancy with the blanket. Today she rescued her blanket from death-by-washer and sat on top of it so I couldn’t sneakily swipe it. I admire her devotion to the anti-laundry movement. Unfortunately for Eva, I’m loaded with good ideas. I turned on Dora and pinched the blanket while she was distracted by the counting in Spanish. Victory for me again.
Gracias, Dora.
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