The Great Laundry Meltdown
What. A. Frigging. Day.
You know those mornings where you wake up full of motivation, determined to get on top of life? That was me. I’d made the bold decision that I wasn’t dropping my laundry at the launderette this week. Nope — this mama was going to handle it all herself. Fresh, clean washing, dried on the line, folded like Pinterest, organised like Marie Kondo.
Spoiler: it didn’t exactly go that way.
The Glorious Start (AKA My Peak Productivity)
First load? In and out on the line by 8am. Go me! Second load? Done by 10am. At this point, I’m unstoppable. I’m strutting around the house like some sort of laundry goddess. Look at me — two loads washed, pegged, and flapping gently in the breeze.
Honestly, who did I think I was? Nigella of the washing world?
I was even mentally planning my Instagram post:
“Just me, being a productive mom, sipping coffee while my washing dries in the sunshine.”
And Then… The Heavens Opened
Because obviously, the weather has a personal vendetta against me.
Out of nowhere, the heavens opened. Torrential rain, sideways wind, the whole shebang. My neighbour probably thought I’d lost it as I bolted into the garden, dragging wet sheets off the line like a woman in a low-budget action film.
Right behind me? My three- and seven-year-old, shrieking with joy as they leapt onto the trampoline in the pouring rain. Honestly, they looked like a pair of gremlins living their best lives.
Me? Soaked.
The washing? Soaked.
The trampoline? Occupied by lunatics.
The House Becomes a Laundrette Horror Film
But did I admit defeat? Of course not. I refuse to pay for the tumble dryer if I can help it (thanks, energy bills). So out comes the airer. And another. And suddenly, my living room looks like an episode of Hoarders: Laundry Edition.
Socks dangling from lampshades. T-shirts draped across chairs. The banister doubling as a towel rail. If the postman had stepped inside, he’d have assumed I was running a dodgy clothes stall.
Meanwhile:
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The boys are running in and out of the house soaking wet.
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The floor is a swamp.
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Toys are breeding.
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My brain is screaming.
And then the kitchen timer dings. Lunch. Because time doesn’t pause for meltdowns.
Noise Levels: Nails in My Skull
By now, the sound levels in my house could rival Wembley Stadium. The boys are shrieking, thundering about like stampeding elephants.
My daughter is asking me 587 questions about clay — she’s making a figure that’s actually impressive but her constant “Mom, is this right? Mom, what if I do this? Mom, can you help?” is pushing me over the edge.
And then, the final straw:
My 13-year-old, Harrison, strolls in and casually asks, “Mom, when’s lunch?”
Excuse me? The toastie maker is literally on the counter, heating up. The cheese is in my hand. The bread is out. What do you THINK I’m doing, son — sculpting clay with your sister?!
The Mom Meltdown
Snap. Crackle. Pop.
“EVERYBODY OUT OF MY KITCHEN!”
I go full drill sergeant:
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Wet clothes → basket.
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Clay project → upstairs.
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Toys → cleared.
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Harrison → suddenly useful (miracles happen).
For a moment, the chaos pauses. The kitchen is mine.
15 Minutes Later: Peace (Sort Of)
Lunch is served. Five plates handed out like rations in a war zone. Children scatter — some to their rooms, some to the living room. Blessed silence falls.
I slip my headphones on, reset the kitchen, and breathe. This mama needs a break.
The Evening Shift
Later, I treat myself to one small victory: fresh bedsheets. Because no matter how bad the day’s been, fresh bedding always feels like a win.
It’s 8:30pm. The kids are contained:
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Zaara watching TV.
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Zak asleep.
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Izaac sprawled in my bed watching telly.
I tidy up (again), pour tea into my trusty Yeti thermos, have a quick wash, and climb into bed. I even let Izaac stay beside me, all cosy, watching TV. Bliss… for a while.
The Midnight Surprise
3am. I wake up to Zak looming over me like something out of a horror film. He climbs in too.
So now my double bed = me + Izaac + Zak. My sleep = gone. My back = in bits.
By 5:30am, I surrender. Sleep was a write-off. I make a cuppa and accept that today is another battle.
The Mum Truth
I started the day as a laundry goddess. I ended it as a drowned rat with a house draped in damp clothes, two kids starfished across my bed, and zero hours of decent sleep.
Lesson learned? Tomorrow the laundry goes to the launderette. The good lord can keep his rain, because I’m not dealing with soggy socks again.
✨ If you’ve ever fought the good laundry fight and lost, leave me a comment below. Misery loves company — and honestly, your laundry disaster stories might just keep me sane.
👉 Read tomorrow’s instalment: Thursday’s Antics. Spoiler: More kids. More chaos. Probably more washing.
like a woman in a low-budget action film
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Comments
This is such a relatable post. You have got me googling local laundrettes and there is only me and my 5 year old son at home, I still struggle
You are like super mom
Your posts make me believe that I’m actually a normal mom.
Thank you for your honesty