Feel free to move along if you've heard too much about washing machines and kids' dirty laundry lately, I'll understand.
Last night we had a make-up game for the previous nights rained out game.
Keep in mind that yesterday, just like the day before and the day before that, it rained nonstop (hence, the reputation) here in the great Pacific Northwest.
As my husband and I were pulling into the driveway, amid the moisture falling from our fair skies, I turned to look at him and said, "I know you talk about living in other places one day that aren't so rainy, but as nice as that sounds, I'd really miss the green. I don't think I could live without all the green."
"I'll send you a postcard," he said back to me, a grin on his face.
We waited a few more minutes for the rain to let up and then ran into the house.
Expecting to get a call from Wyatt's baseball coach, telling us the game was off, I settled in to my regular routine of pick-up-kids-rooms-check-email-fix-dinner-unload-dishwasher, repeat. As I glanced out the window, it never occurred to me that I'd have to sit on a soggy baseball field and watch grown men behave like little babies when they figured out that they were not, indeed, going to win a little league game.
Thank you, grown men, for giving me something to laugh at as I sat there, soaked to the bone, in the rain under my giant golf umbrella trying desperately not to smudge the "x's" as I kept track of pitches!
As you can imagine, after playing (or sitting) for more than 2 hours on a wet baseball field, one becomes, well, muddy.
I don't even think muddy is a strong enough word - mucky? bemired? Point is, we were dirty, all of us. We were so dirty that I had everyone take off their pants in the garage - before I even closed the garage door. Hello neighbors, hope you enjoyed the half-naked show of muddy flesh and bugbites (did I mention that there were bugs?).
After a good, long, soak in a washtub filled with all kinds of stain-fighting goodness (the kind found at Target), I figured the clothes would be rid of all that mud - and muck - and grass clippings (did I mention there were grass clippings too?). I turned the knob and pulled it out from my antiquated washing machine. Then, I waited.
Ol' Betsy (no, I really don't name my appliances) was giving those dirty clothes a run for their money.
If you've ever had a large appliance (like a washing machine) shimmy itself into the room and actually unplug itself from the electrical outlet, you know that this is exactly what it sounds like.
Ka-thump, Ka-thump, Ka-thump, Ka-thump, BANG! silence.
I know that one day, there will be no muddy baseball pants to wash. I know that I'll have a beautiful, highly-functioning washing machine to see myself and my husband (who will be living in Mexico where it hardly ever rains) through our tiny amount of laundry. I know there will be no stripping down of pants by our entire family in a garage with the door open. I know.
And in the meantime, I'll go push that catawompus washing machine back where it belongs and say a little prayer that it does it's job. For without it, my life would (and I have no doubt about this) be unbearable.