She Folded My Laundry.

On small acts of communal care.

The appropriate picture to go with this post would be one of one of the overflowing laundry baskets that have decorated the various rooms in my house for the last several weeks. But since she, my neighbor, folded my laundry you get the empty one instead.

Night before last the toddler came to me after her other grandmother visited and while pulling on one of her ears said in her half “Ukrainian” toddler talk, “Bath.” It was about 5:00 pm a good two and half hours until bedtime, but after running a tub for her which she only stayed in for a few minutes she also quite plainly requested, “Nap.” And after giving her a tiny dose of Motrin, I lie down next to her until her tears of discomfort slipped into the quiet peace of a dreaming baby.

There she stayed for the rest of the night while I, after feeding her sister a simple supper, proceeded to doze off in my own bed well before the appointed bedtime hour. My five year-old beauty came and joined me with a project in tow for her own entertainment, but she, too, soon curled up and dozed off with neither of us waking up until past 10 pm when I gave her meds and transported her to her own room.

For weeks I have been edging the normal chores with a need to do only attitude as my back has been for lack of a better phrase, “under construction”.

What did I do to my hips, lumbar or the surrounding muscles to agitate them into such a state of stagnation and rebellion? I’m not sure. I woke up a bit stiff a few weeks ago on a Sunday morning and, after driving the mountain canyon road to pick up the kids, I found I couldn’t move away from the car or even make it up the driveway into the house where they were staying. I couldn’t fully stand. I couldn’t fully sit. I got stuck on the floor that night. I got stuck in my bed. I was crawling along the walls and furniture to move around the house. After the second round of bean bag bean filler dumping initiated by the toddler that week, I admitted to myself I could not take care of the girls in the state I was in and called in the cavalry. The kids were gone for the rest of the week, which gave me time to lie on my floor and engage in some other much needed adult activities—which were wonderful! but that did not give me full relief or time to fully repair my back. A week later and still not yet, and another week with improvements, but still considerable restrictions.

Stagnancy and tenderness held me in a gingerly grasp.

“Do you think it is psychosomatic?” My lover queried wisely? Well, duh. It’s me. It is always psychosomatic to some degree at least. His concern and the concern of others did not, however, quite touch into the places that were feeling rattled, vulnerable, and hard to bear. And what was that content? More revelations about my father, his life, the impact of his death, and the way he lived. Unsettledness about my situation as caregiver for my granddaughters. Not feeling like I have enough time, structure, or support to care fully for myself let alone them.

Old whispers that are no longer fully true falling away from that which is deeply authentic. Molded and mottled scaffolding that must come down. But that still craves reinforcement before fully standing on its own.

Finally, while scrolling my Facebook reels one night, I came across and ad for Stretch Lab, a place where they do as the name would suggest: stretch you. The timing felt serendipitous, so I booked a single session. To the surprise of my practitioner, even injured, I am more flexible than the majority of the population which, as a person who has been hyper mobile for most of my life, delighted but did not really surprise me. It did, however, feel good to let gravity and someone else’s muscles do the heavy lifting for mine and to allow myself to be maneuvered into some positions that would be hard for me to achieve (especially right now) on my own. All in all, a positive experience, but not one that I am likely to care to repeat; it was kind of expensive for what it was and price wise prohibitive for ongoing care and not likely to be as useful as getting a hot springs membership for even a month.

The stretching, and most likely time to myself, did, however “knock” something loose. Namely: depression. I lie on the couch crying and feeling defeated for a day, but after the initial soreness gave way, as it will with a good deep tissue massage as well, I can honestly say I am experiencing improvement. Naturally, that improvement comes right with the start of my menstrual cycle and this circumstance with the toddler and her tender ear. So, as we come full circle, I can say with quiet certainty: no one in this household has been anywhere near 100% for going on weeks. No wonder we were all sleeping by 7pm!

I am a firm believer in the healing power of sleep.

It seemed wise to let sleep have its way with all of us, to let the girls sleep, to let myself sleep, and to hell with school or at least making any efforts to get there on time. So, that morning while the kids were still sleeping, I texted my neighbor and asked if she would come sit with the toddler while I took her older sister to school a little late mostly to keep the little one’s ear from exposure to the cold, but also to create one less in and out back and forth strapping into and releasing from the carseat for my own body’s relief.

She, the neighbor, came. She came and sat with us while I cooked eggs and got everyone including myself dressed. She sat with Aspen while I took Juniper to school followed by a brief detour to pick up a ham and cheese croissant from my favorite bakery which I devoured in the car while driving home.

When I walked through the blue door to my little tin cottage after my quick kid-free errands, Winnie the Pooh was playing on the TV, and my neighbor was sitting on my couch amidst a massive folded pile of kid’s clothes. She proceeded to point out the various piles, then told me she had let out the dog, what the cats had been doing in my absence as well as the Pooh-enchanted toddler.

She folded my laundry! And not to waste the gift, I roused my ass and put it all away that day.

Suddenly, depositing the contents of the kid’s wardrobe from the remaining baskets seemed like far less of a daunting task. I propped up my phone on top of their dresser and proceeded to store sweats, t-shirts, jeans, dresses, and pants in all their proper places. Clothes too small found a giveaway bag. Clothes inappropriate for our current chilly season with falling leaves and rain dripping from my tin cottage’s eaves found another bag to be tended to next spring. The growing pile in the bathroom got washed by Gawd, and by the end of the night that, too, had found its way into its proper drawers. The dishes in the sink magically found their way into a dishwasher that had been emptied to make room in the endless cycle or wash, put away, refill, repeat. Organizing my sock drawer helped me realize I do not in fact need to buy new tights; I have plenty, but would never have known for their successful hide-and-seeking amidst my piles of socks which are also all now paired and easily accessed.

I write! By Gawd I do! I’m doing it now and a bit in my journal earlier, too. Something that is a sure sign that all is not well with me in its absence. “Are you writing? Are you eating?” The check-in questions from the people who know me well who know when I am not doing well, when I am in the grips of anxiety, depression, or overwhelm. Communal questions regarding my care for myself that slip too easily when dysregulation comes to call.

We yell, “Self-care!” when people are struggling. But what if you are doing all that you can to care for yourself and those who are under your care, too. What then? What if you bathe everyday, or nearly, and dress and do all the things (mostly) that are required to run your life and you still feel you are falling behind? Or you look around at insurmountable piles of laundry or dishes or yard work?

Well, that is what community is for. That is what others are for. And needing them is not some flaw or defect in character. It’s just bloody fucking normal! So normalize asking—asking for help.

Because sometimes to get the whole ball rolling again, all you need is a neighbor who will fold your laundry.