When the median age in our home was in the single digits, laundry happened every day. Two or three loads cycled through the machines without the added incentive of crossing it off my list. There was no need to write it down because it was embedded in the routine. List or no list, it got done.

But now that four of the people who share this home are responsible for their own hygiene, the rhythm is lost. The baskets in our room fill up more slowly, plus occasionally I head down to the basement only to find that someone else is using the machines. Hence the resistance. 

That means that John and I can hit the bottom of the drawers in search of apparel, and as Madame Secretary called them when her washer broke, the "sad underwear". 

Having a pattern for self reflection makes a difference. It can transpire in the privacy of a twelve step room, or small group. Journals can chronicle our musings in a way that gets trampled by non stop interaction. Daily prayer is a viaduct for carrying messages to and from God, at least if we give Him air time too. 

For me it happens in the mornings, before anyone else but my birds are up. Glancing in the mirror of what I have said, who I was critical of, gives me a moment to retract. Respond differently. Apologize.

It is manageable that way. Not like arriving home from a week at the beach with seven suitcases full of sandy towels.