Folding Laundry & Coat Hangers

One of my favorite times with Troy is when I go into the guest room to fold laundry, and he’ll follow me in there to play and keep me company. I think he enjoys being around me, and I enjoy having him there as well, so it’s a win-win for both of us. I’ll be slogging through the massive mound of clean clothing that has piled up on the guest bed, since we have no other dedicated place to store it all during processing. And he’ll come in to the room, walk over to the closet door, look up at me, and say, “dada?” Which is code for, “Please open the door, dad.” I will of course comply, and he’ll promptly head inside to explore.

I’ll go back to folding, and after a minute, I’ll hear a sweet voice say from the closet, “dada?” I’ll reply, “Yes, baby?” turning to see what he needs. And I’ll inevitably find him standing and pointing at the coat hangers high above high head. He’ll repeat himself, “dada?” Which is code for, “Please get me that coat hanger, dad.” I will of course comply, and he’ll tell me, “thank ooo.” I’ll once again go back to folding clothes. After a minute, I’ll hear, “dada?” “Yes, baby?” “Dada?” (Pointing at another coat hanger.) And down it comes. “Thank ooo.”

This process repeats itself until all the coat hangers have been brought down to his level and placed into his hands for inspection. Once he’s satisfied, he’ll plop down in the closet and start waving the coat hangers around, hooking them on each other and anything else he can reach, slapping them against the wall, and generally enjoying this strange new wonderful thing.

He’ll entertain himself like that until I’m just about done folding the clothes. And then once again I hear, “dada?” “Yes, baby?” And he’ll hand me one of the coat hangers. I’ll hang it back up in the closet, and he’ll bend down and hand me another. One by one until they’re all back up on the rod. Then, he’ll inspect my work and satisfied that I have performed my duties of servitude in an acceptable manner, he’ll say, “Thank ooo” once again and leave the room.

On the rare occasion when I might lock him in there with me to give my wife a break, he’ll start scrutinizing my folding job instead. He’ll reach his little hand up over the side of the bed, feeling for anything in his reach, and pull it down. Usually this is only his socks, having learned from my mistakes of leaving other things too close to the edge after having to refold all of his onesies again on a previous weekend. Content that I’m not as useless and stupid as I must apparently look, he’ll hand me back the sock balls to put back on the bed. That is usually the extent of his attention span, and it is at this point that I must either drop everything and play with him, or open the door and let him free to rage chaos and havoc on the rest of the household.