Winds of Change

There is a stiff breeze blowing today, and for the first time in years I think it’s a washing day wind. I used to always peg my washing out on a line, but in recent years, when it’s just been Andrew and me, I’ve made do with a drying rack in the kitchen. More convenient, really, especially since I work during the day. Even before the boys left home Andrew surprised me with a tumble dryer--not the most romantic of presents, perhaps, but I was ecstatic at the time, even if I don’t use it much anymore. We hardly ever have a full load between the two of us.

Yet right now, with the spring sunshine on my face, I surprise myself by thinking it would be rather nice to hang the washing out the way I used to. I have to root around for the clothing pegs, and the line sagging in the back of the garden needs a good brushing off, but a quarter of an hour later there I am, with a basket of damp washing and a pair of pegs sticking out of my mouth. I hang up the first item with a smile, thinking how funny it is that a chore I once dreaded and detested is now a delight. But that’s how life is, isn’t it? You never appreciate what you have while you have it.

I peg the next item out--a pair of Andrew’s work trousers--as my mind wanders back over the years, and the different kinds of washing I’ve hung out to dry. A woman’s life, I muse, could be understood by the contents of her washing basket.

When Andrew and I first married, I’m a bit ashamed to admit I didn’t even do the washing. I worked full-time as a nurse, and I sent the washing out. It came back ironed and folded every week, and I just put it away, too overwhelmed by my new job and long hours even to think of managing it myself. The washing basket was empty, then.

A year after we married I fell pregnant with Jamie. I’d always wanted children and I was happy to stay at home after he was born. And oh, the washing then! Baskets and baskets of baby gros and bibs and cloth nappies--I’m not sure what I was thinking, going for those--all of it an never-ending heap of dirty clothes, or so it seemed to me at the time.

I peg a tee-shirt of mine and smile a bit sadly as I remember those days. At first I’d thought it was just the endless, numbing routine of housework that was getting to me--the washing, the dusting and sweeping, and James being a colicky baby. It would drive anyone mad, I told myself, but I just couldn’t seem to drag myself out of despair. I remember hanging a whole load of cloth nappies up one afternoon when the sun was shining like it is today, yet I’d felt leaden inside, exhausted and emotionless. Then, just as I’d got him down for a nap and was about to sit down with a cup of tea, the heavens opened and the rains poured down. I ran outside to rescue the nappies, and as I yanked the now-sodden cloths from the line I started to cry. Sob, really, as if my heart was broken in pieces. I was crying far too much for a few wet clothes, and I knew then something was wrong. I needed help.

I reach for more pegs now. Fortunately Andrew cottoned on that something was wrong, and encouraged me to go the doctor. I was diagnosed with post-partum depression, and with the proper medication was soon better able to cope, although in many ways life still felt like a struggle. And then the washing changed again--from nappies to muddy football jerseys and trousers with the knees nearly worn out. Both my boys loved their football, and it showed in their clothes. I can remember stabbing the pegs onto the line, furious at another pair of jeans worn through after just a few wearings. And the mud! You’d think they’d bathed in it. I was up to my ears in washing, and Andrew saved the day by presenting me with that tumble dryer.

Yet soon enough the football jerseys and worn-through trousers dwindled as the boys grew older and left home for university, and the basket was near empty. Of course, when they came back for holidays they tipped a term’s worth of washing into it, and exasperated, working full-time once again, I told them they could do it themselves.

Now they’re both in their late twenties and I haven’t done their washing in years. I must confess I haven’t really missed it either, except for now, when the sun is shining and the wind is blowing, and I remember the old days. It all goes by so fast, I think with a little sigh, in such a sweet rush that you can’t appreciate it while you have it. At least I didn’t, and I regret that now. Whether it was depression or just the everyday bustle of life, I can’t remember many moments like this, when I tilted my face upwards to feel the sun bathe my face and enjoyed simply standing here. Simply being. Everything always felt too fraught, too frantic, and I was always rushing, needing to get something done, telling someone to hurry. Now, as I stand there in the sunshine, I’m ready for things to be different. For me to be different.

Smiling, I reach for the last item in my basket: a pale green sleeper, size three to six months. It’s brand new, but I like to wash things before wearing, and I think my first grandchild will too. And as I peg it on the line I know that this time round I am going to enjoy every minute of this child’s life. I’m going to be thankful for what I have, and not let the hustle of daily life dim that joy. My smile widens as I peg the sleeper on the line, and as I turn back to the house I watch it blow and snap in the wind, the welcome wind of change.