Why I’m Wearing Stiff Undies

My friend Charlotte said she used to enjoy the lighthearted family stories that I wrote in my earlier blogging days. That got me thinking. Perhaps I can repost an old story or two from a blog that’s no longer online.

So, here’s a story from January 2014 when the weather was scorching, my husband Andy was home for the school holidays, and most of our kids still lived at home. It’s not a very ladylike tale. I mention things that maybe should remain hidden. Wear them, but don’t talk about them. But then again, undies are just part of life, and we all know the problem of running out of clean ones, don’t we?

Disaster has struck. Our washing machine is broken. The repairman came to have a look: “I need to order a spare part. It could take a few days.” So we are waiting, and our washing is piling up.

“I’m going to run out of socks soon,” I say, as I peel off my sweaty-wet running gear.

“Wear those ones again,” suggests my husband Andy. “They’ll dry.”

“They’ll turn stiff,” I protest. “I can’t run in stiff socks.”

“I could do some hand-washing,” he offers. “Yes, I’ll wash all the undies.”

So Andy fills the laundry sink and tips in the washing powder. Soon, he is sloshing all our socks, bras and undies around in the warm water. Some time later, he shouts, “I’ve washed everything. Who wants to hang it out?”

The girls and I volunteer. Andy carries the heavy basket out into the garden for us. We take the soggy washing, item by item, and peg it all to the line. Andy’s mangle hands did their best, but the washing is still full of water. It drips onto the grass.

Water is dripping off us, too. It’s hot. It’s very hot.

“Perfect weather for drying washing that hasn’t been spun,” observes Imogen. “It’ll be dry before we know it.”

Yes, at least this heat-wave weather is good for something. What if the washing machine had broken down in the middle of winter?

“The clothes feel a bit slimy,” observes Charlotte. “Do you think Dad rinsed the washing powder out of them?”

“I bet they dry stiff,” says Sophie.

But it’s too hot to worry about that, so we keep on pegging.

The washing line is soon full. The basket is empty. So we retreat inside out of the sun and spend the rest of the day trying to stay cool.

After dinner, when the sun has gone down, Andy goes outside to bring in the washing.

“It’s all perfectly dry,” he announces on his return. We expected that. “But it all seems to be a bit stiff.” We expected that too.

“Never mind,” I say, “at least it’s all clean.” I’m not about to complain. It’s not every husband who’d volunteer to do the washing.

This morning, we again peel off our sweaty-wet running gear and toss it into a pile. Andy looks at the mountain of clothing and says, “Maybe I should do some more hand-washing.” Then he grins, “I could make everything stiff again.”

“Did you rinse the washing?” I ask.

“Well, sort of. Maybe not very well,” he admits.

I don’t want him to feel bad, so I say, “I don’t mind stiff undies.” I don’t. It’s kind of funny. Andy thinks it’s funny too. We both collapse into giggles.

And then I have an idea. What if I wrote a blog post called Why I’m Wearing Stiff Undies? Oooh! That’s a great title for a story. Then I look at Andy. Would he mind? Would he think we’re laughing at him? It is good of him to do our washing. No, I can’t afford to upset him.

“You know what?” says Andy. “You should write a blog post about wearing stiff undies.”

“I should?”

He grins. “It would make a good story.”

So that’s what I’m doing. I’m standing here writing a blog post. Standing? Well, it’s a bit hard to sit down at the moment. You see…

I’m wearing stiff undies.

Rereading this old story, I remember that heat-wave summer and how it generated a few stories like Man Bites Shark, There’s a Dead Body Near Our Running Track, and this one.

I’m thankful for my husband Andy who’s always willing to help.

I’m grateful for my family who don’t mind sharing their stories.

And I smile. Humour binds families together, doesn’t it? We can turn misfortunes and inconveniences into funny stories which bring joy to our days.

I still write family stories. You’ll find them sprinkled in amongst the unschooling. Maybe you’ll enjoy these ones:

Ordinary Frida Kahlo Eyebrow Days

Quinn barked, alerting me to the policeman striding along the path towards our house. After securing the dog, I opened the front door, my heart racing, my hands shaking, thinking, “The police only make house calls when they’ve bad news to share.” “Have you seen any strangers lurking recently?” the officer asked. “Your neighbour reported some broken windows.” My heart rate slowed as I realised the man was talking about windows and stones and not car accidents and deaths. I hadn’t seen anything or anyone unusual on our quiet road, so I couldn’t help the officer. He left, and I

When Parents Want What Is Best for Themselves, Not Their Unschooling Kids

I stretch out my legs in front of me and immediately realise I’ve brought something back from my recent dog-walking expedition in the wet bush. I leap to my feet and scare Quinn by screaming, “Get off me!” A leech is feasting on my blood. I try flicking the leech off, but I know this won’t work: it’s firmly attached to my skin. What should I do? I remember a piece of advice given to me by a nature-loving friend: always carry salt when you venture into the bush. I run to the pantry, grab the salt, and shake it

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The original post image of my husband Andy taken in 2014.