The Things I’ve Found in My Kids’ Pockets

You know what should come out of a washing machine? Clean clothes. You know what actually comes out of mine? A full archaeological dig site of whatever crap my kids decided to shove in their pockets.

It all came to a head the day my washing machine decided to throw up error codes like it was possessed. Fine, I thought, probably just the filter. Quick fix. Easy job. Except — and here’s the bit nobody warns you about — when you open that little filter flap while the machine is still full of water, you don’t just get a drip. You get a bloody tsunami.

One minute I’m crouched down in the kitchen, the next I’m starring in my own episode of Deadliest Catch. Water gushed out across the floor like Poseidon himself had a vendetta against me. And along with the water? Everything my kids have ever left in their pockets. Stones, coins, hair clips, half a Lego set, and — I kid you not — a soggy £5 note. What the actual hell? Who launders money literally? Me, apparently.

So now I’m knee-deep in rancid washing-machine water that smells like something died in it, trying to scoop Lego bricks off the floor while my kids are in the background asking:

• “Moooom, what’s for dinner?”

• “Moooom, can we play VR?”

• “Mom, what’s that smell?”

WHAT’S THAT SMELL? IT’S THE SMELL OF MY SANITY LEAVING MY BODY, THAT’S WHAT.

I’m screaming at them all to leave me alone for ten minutes so I can salvage my kitchen from turning into Venice, but do they listen? No. So I’m dragging out the washing machine, dragging out the tumble dryer, whipping out my handheld carpet cleaner (yes, it has suction mode — stop it), and trying to hoover up water like I’m auditioning for a low-budget cleaning infomercial.

Half an hour later, I’m sweaty, furious, and my kitchen looks like a squat. Towels everywhere, piles of damp washing dumped across the floor, school bags chucked in the chaos, wires and appliances pulled out like I’ve been searching for Narnia behind the washing machine. All while that lovely smell of stagnant swamp water lingers in the air like a final insult.

I plug in the little blow heater, leave it running, and just stand there, broken. I am woman. I am mother. I am absolutely done.

And the cherry on top? Dinner. Couldn’t face it. Didn’t even try. So yes, my knight in shining armour arrived in the form of a McDonald’s tea. Greasy fries never tasted so much like victory.

Because sometimes survival isn’t about spotless kitchens or working washing machines. It’s about damage control, laughing at the absurdity, and feeding everyone nuggets so you don’t have to deal with anything else.