No exaggeration — my husband, oldest child and I did about seven loads of laundry this weekend. Seven. All kids' clothing. When you have three rug rats running around, you end up with a lot of dirty duds.
How we managed to do that much laundry and not have washed a single pair of socks, I do not know. But, that was the situation yesterday.
Middle Child was in a frenzy trying to find socks. I pilfered a yellow pair from her older sister's drawer. They were not good enough — probably because they matched.
As we walked out the door for school, I looked down and she was wearing one hot-pink Hello Kitty sock and one, ultra-fuzzy, should-be-confined-to-the-house slipper sock.
Now, Middle Child goes to a school where the mommies wear the latest Tory Burch flats. Little girls skip to school with ribbons tied in their hair to match their clothes.
Middle Child looks like she just rolled out of the homeless camp.
My husband — the human Garanimal — tries his best to offer up tops and pants that actually go together.
I, on the other hand, have given up. Yes, it's ironic, isn't it? Part of my day job is writing about fashion and beauty.
Whatev. I'm tired and have little fight left in me. If it gets me out of the house 10 minutes quicker — and gives me a chance to chronicle outfits that will be a huge source of embarrassment to the offspring about 5 years down the road — then I'll let my kids look homeless.
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