I drew a line in the sand today. After 28 years of marriage, I have the divine right to pick and choose what I will or will not wash. Period.
I entered the laundry room to put away some cleaning supplies I had been using and there stood my husband. He had a handful of dirty clothes, but suspiciously rolled up. I said, “What’s that?”. “Oh, I had a blow out”, he said so innocently. “Um, and you were just going to leave it there for me to ‘find’. Not the kind of thing I want to discover hours, possibly a day later. No! Dude! Wash it yourself or throw it away. I’m not cleaning that up”, I said – trying not to gag while saying it.
He washed them. Himself. In the sink. And, then I made him scrub the sink too. Ugg! I still believe our first impressions at 5 years old was correct. Boys. Are. Gross!