Rock Climbing
Mothers are patient people. Wait, let me qualify that: mothers have to be patient people, or they’d be serial killers.
Personally, I didn’t leave my rock collection in my clothes when I was a kid: mine was one of those organized little school science trip assortments of 20 or so, glued into a pretty display box and neatly labeled “quartz”, “calcite”, “obsidian” (very sexy), and, my personal hands-on favorite, “mica”. If I had left rocks in my pockets for my mother to discover in the wash, well, what’s that about a fate worse than a fate worse than death? Perhaps not that, but I’d have been folding and ironing clothes until I was forced to elope (for the record, I didn’t elope, because I wisely didn’t leave rocks in my clothes, but now we’re at a chicken and egg situation, so I’ll just move on).
My children, however, did leave rocks and all matter of shocking items in their dirty denims. A tree frog once got a long and sudsy bath - pre-funeral. More than a few vital school notifications went the way of the bleach and rinse cycle. I abhor chewing gum, but my obvious good sense didn’t transfer to my children given the number of pants I had to toss thanks to the pink cud congealing in the seams of their school uniforms.
Do I sound a little disgusted? Conceded. Get back to me when your kids dump their trainers in the dryer. Ka dunk, ka dunk, ka – oh no! What the . . .? Call the guy!! And make sure mom isn’t armed.