It's already nine. My son shows no sign of minding the hour pressing in. He has spent more than ten minutes choosing which toy to take with him. "Shall we run this train all the way to the front door?" I try, bright as I can manage. No response—apparently I'll need another approach today. On the walk to daycare, we can't even finish the second nursery rhyme. They all sound the same anyway, I think.
When my wife told me to split the laundry into three loads, I thought something similar. Light clothes, easily soiled clothes, newborn clothes—that seems to be how she wants them separated. I start to ask why, then stop. It was more complaint than question. Maybe it showed on my face.
On my own, one load of laundry was enough. After we moved in together, it became two; once we had our son, three. Things I can't tell apart keep multiplying in daily life. I haven't made peace with all of it. Still, my mouth softens a little even as I struggle. I remember my wife wearing that kind of face too. She may feel the same.
After I started the third load, I sat down beside my son. "Which one would you like?" This time we hesitate together.