Originally uploaded by laundrylessons.

In order to wash the pile of rags, collecting in my stationary sink, I turn the load size dial from extra large, all the way to the left – “extra small”. When the machine isn’t cleaning ten pairs of jeans or twelve towels it isn’t living up to its potential. But I can’t mix the rags, filled with the crumbs from under the fridge and muddy cat footprints, with the load of whites. My rags take care of some of the toughest, dirtiest jobs in the house, yet I don’t take care of them. They stack up for a couple of weeks, getting crusty and smelly, before I wash them and put them away.

My rags are old and have stories. The burgundy rags are my wedding towels. In 1989 designer bedrooms were filled with hunter green, burgundy and navy stripes, paisleys and plaids. Not wanting my future husband to think I would subject him to a feminine bedroom, I went along with the trend and registered at O’Neils department store for burgundy towels. JP’s footed sleeper was cut up when his piggys poked holes in the feet. The soft flannel picks up the dust bunnies that hide in the bookcase. And the rag with the embroidered flowers was a baby gift for Paige. She turns thirteen soon and her baby towel has long been retired.

When I first used those burgundy wedding towels I didn’t have many rags. I used more paper towels back then, not knowing that the stash of cloths in my mother’s cleaning closet took years to earn. But things weren’t so dirty then. No kids tracking in mud, spilling orange juice, or dumping the shampoo bottle upside down on the bathroom floor. We were newlyweds, living in a small apartment that may have been dusted once a month. We didn’t care about the dirt of life; we were too focused on us.

But somewhere between opening wedding gifts and seeing our oldest attend a seventh grade dance, my rag collection has grown to fill two laundry baskets. I have so many rags that when Graham’s elementary school donated old towels and rags to the animal shelter, I was able to send a whole bag. Life no longer focuses on just John and me. We live in large piles of dirt. We have the skills and the cleaning supplies to deal with our family’s messes, but sometimes I can’t help but feel like the rags.

I take care of those dirty jobs, not just the cleaning but also the hour of council I give to Paige while she tries to sort through adolescent issues, or the four hours it takes daily to feed Merritt and make her special meals, or the fifteen hours weekly I stand over the washing machine. Most moms understand our dirty jobs, and love them. But sometimes I need to be cleaned, fluffed and gently folded back in place.

I wouldn’t call it a New Year’s Resolution, but I did decide to take better care of myself this year. We all have definitions of what it means to care for our souls. A friend told me she had resolved to make sure her nails were always done. That isn’t mine, but if it lifts her up and makes her a better mom, more power to the manicure. Deciding what makes me feel pampered has been a fun indulgence. Giving myself the okay to read a book in the middle of the day, getting a sitter so I can exercise and going out for coffee with friends make me feel well cared for after I’ve had to do dirty mom work.

A true story about rags in my life happened our third year of marriage. John and I rarely disagreed about issues, and I was shocked by the length of discussion about the proper care of rags. John watched me grab the cleaning rags out of the dryer and dump them in a broken laundry basket near the mops and brooms.

“Aren’t you going to fold those rags?” he remarked.

“Why would I fold rags? I’m just going to pull one out of the basket to clean. They don’t need to be folded.”

“Rags were always folded when I was growing up.”

“That is crazy.” I replied and the discussion took on a more heated tone.

Now I’m not so sure. Anything that toils, to make sure life is tidy, clean and safe should be shown respect. Sometimes we downplay the work we do as just part of the job, but I know that I deserved my two hour nap Sunday afternoon. I was folded neatly under my comforter, dead to the world, restoring my energy to tackle the next mess. Folding me up, I can do. But, I still won’t fold rags. Will you?