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Organic Baby Wool Socks

This page should have information if you are looking for Organic Baby Wool Socks

	Organic Merino Wool Baby Booties/Socks in Natural White, size 80 Sale Price: $30.50
	Tiny feet stay toasty warm within two layers of our softest merino wool. Soothing against baby's yet uncalloused, sensitive skin. Woolen ties keep booties from slipping off baby's feet. Available in Natural White and Soft Grey.

Laundry, life's little labour

It is perhaps every mother’s fantasy that each family member will be able to unfold wardrobe doors onto spotless, crisp, neatly arranged rows of shirts, trousers and dresses all organized in size, colour or garment order.  A sweet smell of fresh meadows should issue out, enveloping you in a dreamy, Lenor-inspired advert world where sunshine bounces off fields of nodding bluebells which sway beneath skies of cotton-wool clouds.

It was after the birth of my first child that washing, for the first time in my life, became an issue.  Not only did I have a baffling, squalling infant to attend to but suddenly I had shed loads of pooey, sicky vests, babygrows, tiny clothes, blankets and sheets to contend with.  All mothers must be familiar with the scene; baby has been bathed and smells divine.  Hair is fluffy like duckling.  Nappy goes on.  Beautiful, crisp, white poppered vest goes on next.  Soft, adorable babygrow follows and baby is sweet-smelling, pristine and cuddly as a little bear.  You nuzzle said divine creature and gently lie him down in his newly changed, terry toweling sheeted and fleecy blanketed carrycot.  Baby rests head on one side and regurgitates pool of milk.  An ominous trumping sound emanates from beneath the sweet, fleecy blanket which when whipped away reveals a slowly spreading chicken korma coloured stain on baby’s babygrow.

Baby is whipped out and divested of clothes.  Carrycot is stripped of sheets and blankets.  Baby is re-dressed.  Carrycot sheets and blankets are changed.  The scene is re-enacted five further times during the night and your laundry basket is full by morning.

Soon after my second child was born I adopted for myself the title ‘Dame Washalot’ a character from one of my favourite childhood books, ‘The Magic Faraway Tree’.  All I could remember of the dame was that she’d throw her dirty laundry water down the tree on top of anybody heading up it.  I imagined the old lady, in a foul temper at the endless, mind-numbing stream of dirty washing which came her way and felt a real empathy with her.  When recently I looked her up however I was disgusted to learn that her face would shine with joy when she saw a lot of washing to do.  Apparently she washed and ironed beautifully and had a lovely time doing it.

I have met many women in recent  years who clearly enjoy the whole laundry business.  They have complex systems in place and do ‘whites’, ‘pinks’, ‘coloureds’ and ‘dark’ washes.  Some have rules that they must put one load on, hang one load up, take one load down and put one load away each day or disaster ensues and domestic life spirals out of control.

It is the sheer drudgery and infinite nature of washing which so disturbs me.  I spend unconscionable amounts of my life sorting through muddy, smelly clothes soiled by all manner of bodily secretions and misdirected food and then flung nonchalantly (if you’re lucky) into one of four linen baskets.  The alternative involves scrabbling under beds, sniffing discarded underpants and socks in an effort to determine their degree of freshness.  Bad luck if in your enthusiasm you inhale too deeply from a particularly pungent item.

And the dreary, endlessness of it all.  No sooner have you washed and hung up all the washing than it needs taking down, sorting into piles, transferring to owner’s room/drawers/wardrobe and the next wash begins.

I fantasise about getting to the bottom of each linen basket and of all clothes being put away, ironed, neatly folded and ready for wear except, of course, in my dream everyone must stay naked to ensure empty linen baskets.

I suppose we shouldn’t complain.  My mother had to do her washing in a pull out twin tub which sat in the middle of the kitchen and frequently leaked water.  She also had a mangle.  We do at least have the benefit of state-of-the-art automatic washing machines, driers and irons, labour-saving devices which would have filled my mum’s heart with joy.  My husband has been known to say that all I do is push a few buttons but of course it’s not the act of washing that is so mind-numbing, it’s what you have to do with the washing before and after it’s washed that can make you weep.

Maybe the answer is disposable clothes? PVC all-in-ones which only need wiping down?  Enough money to pay for somebody else to do it for you?  Answers on a postcard please.  Unfortunately while humans have no fur there will always be clothes.  While mothers exist they will always wash clothes.  Who’d have thought that millions of years of evolution would lead up to this?

About the Author

I am a 43 year old ex-English teacher with three children. I want to write and have lots of ideas about lots of things. I dream of my own column in a magazine/paper where I can muse on the modern world, children, the purpose of human life and such like.