They say that parenting transforms you. I thought I knew what that meant—sleepless nights, endless diaper changes, and juggling a household while nurturing a newborn. But nothing could have prepared me for the exhaustion of washing mountains of baby laundry by hand. Six months postpartum, I was drowning in a sea of soiled onesies, burp cloths, and tiny socks when our faithful, yet aging, washing machine finally gave up.
I remember the moment clearly. I was in the middle of my daily routine—sorting through baby clothes and scrubbing stains that seemed determined to set forever—when I noticed that our old washing machine had sputtered one final time and died. I sighed, resigned yet worried about the additional workload that was about to be forced upon me.
My husband, Trevor, known for his frugality and stubborn streak, refused to consider replacing the appliance. Instead, he delivered his final, infuriating decree:
“Not this month. I’m paying for my mom’s vacation. You can wash everything by hand. People used to do that for centuries, and NOBODY died of it!”
Excuse me?! Little did I know that his words were about to spark a fire within me—a fire that would lead to a full-blown, 2.5-week-long battle of washing, scrubbing, and ultimately, revenge.
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