School's out

The end of the school year can be a tough time for parents.

In the summer months, we parents no longer have a taxpayer-funded place to store our children for seven hours a day. We must find ways to keep the kids safe, fed and amused while we work. We must transport them from place to place in oven-like minivans. We pay more for summer camp than we might pay for tuition at Yale. We must plan a (gulp!) vacation trip with the kids.

But let’s not focus on the complaints. Let’s take a moment to look at the benefits of school-free summers.

No more pencils, notebooks or other school supplies are necessary in summer. Children (especially boys) tend to lose those items repeatedly during the school year, along with their jackets, gloves and random shoes. Replacement costs go way down until fall, when we must completely outfit the students all over again.

No more books other than those of the children’s choosing. I recommend that kids spend as much time as possible in a nice, air-conditioned library.

No more teachers’ dirty looks. Parents suffer just as much as the kids when misbehavior, failing grades or other bad news require teacher meetings throughout the school year. Sure, the kids might still be little vandals during the summer, but your neighbors can’t force a face-to-face meeting the way teachers can. Just don’t answer the doorbell.

No more calls from the principal. (See above paragraph.) Plus, no more of those automated calls where the principal’s disembodied voice informs parents of minimum days, STAR testing, truancies, emergency lockdowns, etc.

No school means no homework which may mean fewer arguments around the house. Instead of standing over the offspring, forcing them to do their homework, we parents can force them to do yard work.

Summer means lots less laundry. Youngsters need to wear fresh clothes to school every day (whether they like it or not), but in summer they can go around in the same swimsuit, T-shirt and flip-flops for days on end. Swimming puts more towels in the mix, but at least those are easy to fold. Since the kids are home for the summer, maybe you can even get them to do the laundry. (Hahaha. Just kidding.)

School-related fundraising comes to a halt in summer. For three months, parents won’t have to foist band candy, bake sales or raffle tickets on their co-workers, neighbors and former friends.

Summer gives children more free time to climb trees, ride bicycles and skateboards, wrestle the family dog and engage in other dangerous activities. This gives parents the opportunity to get re-acquainted with the family doctor, insurance providers and the staffs at local emergency rooms.

(A parenting tip: Remind your children that “Look, Ma, no hands!” is a boast, not a medical condition.)

Most of all, summer vacation means parents can spend more “quality time” with their kids, aside from the hours spent in emergency rooms.

Take the children on a picnic, take them fishing, go to a ballgame, play games together or spend hot afternoons in air-conditioned matinees. Family activities are where memories are made, and summer is the best time for them. The kids will thank you (someday) for devoting your summer months to their welfare and amusement.

One final benefit: The more time the family spends together, the more eager the children will be to return to school next fall.

Rubik's rube

Erno Rubik’s got nothing on me.

Rubik is the Hungarian sculptor and architect who invented the Rubik’s Cube and other games. It takes a special sort of mind to devise such clever, addictive puzzles.

I have two teen-aged sons, so naturally we have Rubik’s Cubes lying around the house. My sons busily work the puzzles while simultaneously watching TV, texting on their phones, scratching, playing video games, listening to music and eating. Such are the nimble minds of multi-tasking youths.

My experience with Rubik’s Cube has been less casual. I sit down and give the cube my full attention, and after turning the colorful tiles every which way for 24 seconds, I say, “That was fun,” and toss it aside. Because that’s enough for me. It would take me hours of concentrated effort to even sort of figure out how the danged thing works, to get some type of system going, much less solve the puzzle, and it’s not worth it. The payoff’s not big enough for the time wasted. Unlike, say, a crossword puzzle, which only takes me a few minutes to work and the solution of which makes angels sing.

Scientists call the ability to see and manipulate objects in two and three dimensions “spatial visualization.” The term comes from the Latin roots “spatia” (or “shoulder”) and “visuali” (“door jamb”).

Several experiments have found that men tend to be better at spatial visualization. Yay, men! No offense to women, but we men don’t get many wins in our column these days. Along with spatial visualization, scientists have found that men tend to be better at lifting furniture, stealing elections and competitive eating. That’s about it.

Men’s special adaptation for spatial visualization, which may go all the way back to the days of prehistoric hunters, certainly explains teen-aged boys’ affinity for video games. I’m no better at video games than I am at Rubik’s Cube, and my failures led me to doubt my spatial visualization manhood. I felt intimidated. My sons mocked me, saying within my earshot: “Imagine the hefty Hungarian brain of Erno Rubik!”

Just as I was wondering whether there was a cure for my spatial visualization shortcomings, a mental Viagra, if you will, I had a breakthrough. I saw that non-Hungarians such as myself face spatial visualization puzzles all the time in everyday life and manage to solve them just fine.

Take, for example, our laundry room. We have two (usually full) laundry baskets. We have a washer and dryer, the tops of which serve as the work surface. The washer’s a top loader. The dryer’s a front loader. No problem, the baskets sit on the dryer, right? Except the lint trap is on top of the dryer. So I have to move baskets to put clothes in or out of the washer and to start each new load in the dryer. Back and forth, open and close. I’m so accustomed to this routine, I do it without thinking. My movements are polished by repetition. The baskets slide back and forth and lids slam and, ba-da-bing, new loads of laundry are under way.

Take that, Erno.

Don’t even get me started on the proper way to load a dishwasher. Oh baby, we could be here all day. Nothing arouses my manly spatial visualization skills like a sink full of dirty dishes. The geometry of loading the big stuff and filling in with the smaller items. The proper tilt to catch the best spray. The ups and downs of silverware.

Whew.

Maybe I’ll try that Rubik’s Cube again.

Laundry quandary

Here's a typical load of laundry at my house: 17 black T-shirts, all approximately the same size.

My sons wear black T-shirts all the time. My wife wears oversized T-shirts around the house or under sweaters. And me? I work at home. My whole life's built around T-shirts.

I do the laundry around here, and I follow the rules on the detergent box: Wash like colors together. But that inevitably results in one load that's all black cotton T-shirts.

Even under the best conditions (strong light, perfect vision), it's difficult to sort black T-shirts. I do it in the dim laundry room. Because I love a mystery.

Tags might give a clue, except that we mostly shop at the same stores, and a label that says "Old Navy" won't narrow the field much.

The teens' shirts often have insults or rock band logos or both displayed on the front, but the shirts are always inside-out in the laundry. I either have to turn them right, or peek inside to read the logo upside-down and backward. And then remember which kid likes which band.

I end up guessing. Various black T-shirts end up in various wrong drawers, only to cycled through the laundry again later. ("Hey, this isn't mine…")

In this manner, the T-shirts migrate around the house, from dresser to floor to washer to dryer and back again. Our shirts get around more than we do.

This might seem a minor annoyance, and it is. So, naturally, I've arrived at a grandiose solution that requires government funding:

Families should become color-coded. Each person would have a color that's strictly his or hers, and each family member would wear a different one.

Newborns would be assigned a color, and that would be their color forever. If they draw "green," then it's all green for them. Green clothes, green linens, green toothbrush, green everything. You name it. Green.

They don't like green? Tough. That's their color. They're green until further notice. They're green and that's it. They're green until they turn 18, and move out of the house and wear only black like the rest of the college students. But for now, one color per person. No givesy-backsies.

Color-coding would solve many household problems. No more sibling accusations of "stealing my favorite sweater." No more fighting over which toothbrush belongs to which child. No more trying to recall which sheets fit on which bed.

Laundry could be sorted in no time. Anyone (except the colorblind) could do it, and it would be easier to shanghai children into doing their own: "That's your pile there, Greeny. Get busy."

Imagine how cheery family dinners would be, with each person dressed in one bright color head to toe, and using the same color plate and cutlery and place mat. We'd look like the Teletubbies.

The government funding? We'd need a national publicity campaign to "raise awareness" of the simple Family Color Coordination solution. Then government should butt out. No need to take it farther than that. Congress shouldn't dictate that all moms wear blue, or every fourth child must wear yellow or whatever. That would be overreaching. Families should decide for themselves how to best approach color assignments, if any.

I call dibs on black.

When laundry goes bad

Every family needs a balanced division of labor.

Each household has many tasks that must be done regularly, and it's only fair that spouses divvy them up, according to time and ability and personal preference. Once kids reach a certain age, many chores can be dumped on them, but it still should be equitable. That's the democratic ideal.

A pivotal moment in my marriage came early on, when my wife and I made the following pact: She would pay the bills and do the household paperwork, and I would do all the laundry.

This was an ideal division of labor, pegged to ability (she's a whiz at organization; I can't do math) as well as personal preference (she hates laundry). I quickly found that laundry was something I could accomplish while watching sports on TV. Like I said, it was ideal.

Things change, of course. Once we had babies, I started wondering if I was getting a raw deal. The amount of laundry quadrupled and I found myself trying to fold, oh, 700 of those little "onesies" every week.

But household paperwork got more complicated, too. Mortgages and escrow accounts and insurance premiums and stock options and credit card statements and other math-related stuff I don't even pretend to understand.

The laundry load got somewhat easier after our sons passed the diapers-and-urp stage of their development. When they hit their teens. (Kidding!)

As the boys got older, I required them to round up their own dirty clothes. I wasn't about to prowl their filthy rooms in search of crunchy socks and moldy towels. If they wanted their clothes washed, they had to bring them to the laundry room.

The flaw in that plan: They didn't care if their laundry got done. They'd happily wear the same pair of jeans day in and day out, until the pants could stand up on their own and they could just leap into them every morning. In fact, they'd think that was "cool."

It became an exercise in nagging. Eventually, the clothes would appear and I'd wash them, along with whatever crayons, loose change, gravel and live frogs happened to be in the pockets.

I was griping about this situation, and my wife asked why didn't the boys do their own laundry. I raised several objections, including a dramatic rendition of a washer overflowing with suds, right out of an episode of "I Love Lucy," but my wife persisted, and we gave the boys the bad news.

Mostly, it's worked out okay. I still nag them when it becomes abundantly clear that their clothes need washing. They, so far, have not filled the house with suds.

But I know they're cutting corners, which brings me to the Hideous Shirt.

Years ago, in preparation for an Ugly Hawaiian Shirt contest, I made a thrift-store purchase of a brown-green-and-gold psychedelic number I thought was a sure winner, but it didn't even place. Who knew how ugly those shirts could get? Whew.

My younger son rescued the Hideous Shirt from the trash, pronounced it "cool" and took it to his room. He never wears it, but it regularly shows up in the laundry.

I know how this happens. After the requisite nagging, he does a clean sweep, picking up all clothes, dirty or clean, and throwing them in the washer. I watch the never-worn Hideous Shirt cycle through the laundry, and I chew my lips over the inefficiency and waste.

At least the boys aren't trying to balance the checkbook. Imagine how hideous that would be.

Ducking the stress

We all know stress can be a killer, but too little research focuses on the minor stresses of everyday life.

Yes, life catastrophes are stressful and our sympathies go out to anyone facing serious medical problems or divorce or any of the other "biggies" in the world of stress. But scientists give all their attention to the health effects of these major stressors, while ignoring the seemingly minor irritations that accumulate like hairline cracks in a dam.

Car trouble or parenthood or even burnt toast first thing in the morning can set your whole day on its ear, and can produce enough stress to shave years off your life.

This insidious everyday stress builds to a cumulative effect that researchers call "being nibbled to death by ducks."

Allow me to illustrate from a typical evening hour at our house. The tranquil domestic scene: Dad's watching a basketball game on TV. Mom's busy at the computer. Two sons and the dog play the roles of the ducks.

Dad's schedule goes like this:

7 p.m. -- Stop watching game to let dog out. Return to sofa.

7:03 p.m. -- Jump up and answer phone. It's for son No. 1.

7:06 p.m. -- Let the dog back in.

7:09 p.m. -- Jump up to check out funny noise being produced by toilet.

7:12 p.m. -- Return to sofa with no solution to toilet issue.

7:14 p.m. -- Get up to answer other phone. It's for son No. 2. Dad searches house, finds son No. 2 jumping on bed. Stern lecture must wait; son is wanted on the phone.

7:18 p.m. -- Dog brings son's dirty sock to Dad, who extricates sock from alligator-like jaws and marches to laundry room.

7:19 p.m. -- Dad tosses sock at the laundry basket. His aim isn't what it used to be. Sock bounces off rim and falls into tight space behind the clothes dryer. Dad curses.

7:19 p.m. to 7:25 p.m. -- Dad fishes behind dryer with the handle of a fly swatter, trying to snag stray sock.

7:26 p.m. to 7:30 p.m. -- Dad searches house for a particular toy -- a long handle with a grabber claw on one end -- because it's the perfect tool for sock retrieval. Sons can't be bothered to help in hunt. They're both on the phone.

7:35 p.m. -- Dad finds grabber toy, lying in plain sight. Returns to laundry room, muttering about vision and old age.

7:37 p.m. -- Dusty sock is successfully retrieved. (Victory should be a stress reliever, but …)

7:38 p.m. -- Dad throws sock at laundry basket. Sock, apparently intent on suicide, plunges
behind the dryer again.

7:39 pm. to 7:42 p.m. -- Creative cursing.

7:43 p.m. -- Repeat earlier steps to save sock. Dad carefully places it in laundry basket.

7:46 p.m. -- Dad returns to game. Finds that it's halftime. Grrr.

7:48 p.m. -- Jump up to answer phone. It's for son No. 1 again.

7:49 p.m. -- Let dog out.

7:50 p.m. -- Check toilet. Still making funny noise. More cursing.

7:53 p.m. -- Let dog in.

7:56 p.m. -- Jump up to answer phone. It's for son No. 2. Dad carries phone the length of the house to find boys feeding socks to the dog.

7:57 p.m. -- Dad clutches chest and reels around room. Sons, in unison, quack: "Look out! He's gonna blow!"

7:59 p.m. -- Mom, drawn by noise, interrupts Dad's tirade to say: "What's wrong with you? I thought you were watching the game."

8 p.m. -- Dad melts into trembling pile of protoplasm. Rest of family confused. Why is Dad so stressed?

And why does he keep raving about ducks?

Wash and wear and tear

If cleanliness is next to godliness, then why does laundry so often seem like a little slice of Hell?

Laundry, like a lot of household chores, is never finished. You wash clothes, you dry clothes, you neatly hang them in a closet. Then somebody comes along and wears them, and you must start all over again.

Doing laundry resembles the eternal punishment of Sisyphus in Greek mythology, whose job in Hades was to roll a heavy stone up a hill only to have it roll back to the bottom. Every time. Forever.

Sisyphus didn't have to worry that someone might've left a leaky ballpoint pen in a pocket of the heavy stone. But such danger exists in any household that includes laundry and children.

The other day, I found a scrunched-up candy wrapper in the bottom of the washer. A wrapper that clearly, until very recently, had contained actual candy. (As opposed to the endless number of empty wrappers that usually turn up.)

Closer examination found that every garment in the load was streaked with chocolate. Repeated washings got out most of the stains, but what should've been a quick load of laundry became an all-day exercise in rolling that rock up that hill.

I wanted to blame my two sons for the candy fiasco. (Actually, I wanted to beat them with wet blue jeans, but other members of the household deemed that a bit harsh.) The truth is, though, that the blame rests solely with the manufacturers of today's trousers.

Have you looked at boys' clothes lately? Each pair of pants now comes equipped with an average of 47 zippered pockets. That's a conservative estimate, and may be a tad low.

Parents of boys know to check every pocket of every garment before tossing it into the washer. This is because boys tend to load their pockets with gravel and homework papers and leaky pens and toys and candy and live frogs. Now, with so many pockets involved, you're almost certain to overlook one. And that pocket, according to Murphy's Law, will be the one containing the live frog.

Contemporary fashions also dictate that boys wear pants so baggy that entire Bedouin families could reside within them. Two pairs of these giant pants can make an entire load. And, at 47 pockets per pair, well, you get the picture.

As they get older, kids change their clothes more often. I don't know what it's like for daughters, but here's how it works with boys: When they're pre-schoolers, they have one or two favorite garments and refuse to wear anything else. A 5-year-old boy is perfectly willing to stand around naked while you wash his Superman shirt rather than slip into something clean.

But once boys reach a certain age -- around the time they decide that maybe girls don't have "cooties" after all -- they are driven by instinct to change clothes every few minutes to remain fashionably "cool." Some garments are worn so briefly they're not even dirty. Yet enough time has elapsed to fill the pockets with leaky pens and frogs. Go figure.

Why, you might ask, don't I make my boys do their own laundry? Why not let them wash their clothes separately and be responsible for their own pocket checks? And if they do laundry the same slapdash way they do other chores, why not let them suffer the consequences?

Good questions. My only answer is: Do we, as a society, really want frogs to become endangered species?

Washday blues

I'm about to hit an important milestone, and you know how much that can hurt.

Any minute now, by my calculations, I'll mark Laundry Load No. 10,000 of my married life.
Ten-thousand times that I've loaded the washer. Ten-thousand times that I've forgotten to put into the dryer the little fabric-softener sheet that my wife supplies. Ten-thousand times that I've been near-electrocuted by the resulting static electricity. Ten-thousand times that I've fluffed and folded and put away fresh clean clothes, only to have my sons throw them into the same pile with the dirty stuff.

Yes, 10,000 washer loads is a huge milestone, and it's depressing as hell. Why? Because, like most milestones, it's merely a marker on a long journey. I've got thousands more laundry loads in my future, and if that's not worth a ball-and-chain of dread, then I don't know what is.

How did I get locked into Eternal Laundry Hell? I made a deal with my wife.

Early in our marriage, my wife and I agreed: I'd do all the laundry (a job she despises) and she'd handle the bills and all household paperwork.

At the time, this seemed like a sweet deal. Laundry? Pish. It was just the two of us and, even in the years when the job required a trip to a coin-operated laundromat, keeping the clothes clean was easier than keeping track of insurance forms and credit-card receipts.

Besides, the thinking went, as a novelist I didn't need the burden of worrying about money; it could hinder my creative juices. Instead, I still worry about money all the time, but with a complete lack of knowledge of our household financial situation.

This has worked out very well so far. Our conversations about household finances tend to go like this:

Me: "How we doing?"

Wife: "OK."

Me: "Good."

Clearly, I have no idea whether the household paperwork has gotten harder over the years, but I'm fully aware that the laundry workload has increased tremendously. This is because we had children.

(Did my wife know kids were in our future when we set up this division of labor? Did she anticipate the approximately 17 jillion little baby shirts with spit-up on them? Hey, wait a minute . . . )

Each child doubles the amount of laundry in a household. How is this mathematically possible? I don't know. And how do families with six or seven kids keep up with it all? I don't know that, either. They must sleep in shifts so they can keep their washer going around the clock.

My laundry workload has fluctuated over the years. I do fewer loads per week now that my sons rarely spit up on their shirts. On the other hand, their clothes keep getting bigger and they insist on wearing the same jeans over and over. So it evens out in the long run.

These days, I do about a dozen loads per week, which comes out to more than 600 per year. It would be more, but many of my wife's clothes are "Dry-Clean Only." This is the only way she's found that will guarantee that I don't ruin her clothes by shrinking, staining, shredding or spindling them. Sure, dry cleaners are expensive, but she'll pay anything to keep her delicate dresses out of my clutches.

Everyday stuff -- jeans and T-shirts and socks -- get tougher to sort all the time because the kids keep growing. Now, they're both about the same size as my wife. (The dog's about that size, too, for that matter. Good thing he doesn't wear clothes.)

I'm forced to go through the laundry in slow-motion, holding up each T-shirt, trying to guess to whom it belongs by the message written on the chest. I often guess wrong, which results in the usual muttered complaints as the clean, misplaced T-shirt is thrown into the same pile with the dirty ones.

Then I come along, sighing, and gather up all the clean and dirty clothes and run them through the washer again.

Here's what I'm thinking: "10,001."