Folding a Onesie

I've been at my new job for almost nine months now. (The pay isn't great, but my colleagues are pretty awesome.) And as I've learned this "Dad" gig, I think I've done pretty well. I can identify different types of wailing, act mature during a smelly diaper change, and sit on a rocking chair with the best of them. I even sing sometimes.

But I am awful, just awful, at folding onesies.

The thing is, I never used to do the laundry. During "the great chore dividing conversation" after we got married, Bridget gladly took the reins on cleaning and folding our clothes. She was faster than me, had better fine motor skills, and actually found the task relaxing. I, on the other hand, took the more traditional options like taking out the trash, emptying the dishwasher, and cleaning up after Oscar.

Then Annabelle was born and I started doing some of Bridget's chores, including the hated laundry. (I quickly learned that there's absolutely no comeback to "Okay, you grow boobs and feed the baby next time." Whenever that trump card comes out, I put my head down and reach for the detergent.)

To be honest, I don't mind most of the laundry process. I love productivity, so the idea of completing a task appeals to me. I like separating the whites from the darks, lugging the IKEA bag down the stairs to the washer, and smelling the fluffy clothes when they come out of the dryer.

But then I realize it's time to fold -- and I cringe.

I start with boxer shorts and towels because they are the easiest. Then I move on to pants, which I can handle. But then things start deteriorating pretty quickly. Shirts and blouses never come out quite right. Socks never match. And then, for the love of God, it's time for the onesies.

Here, in alphabetical order, is everything in the world that's more difficult than folding onesies: Nothing. And here, in alphabetical order, is everything in the world that's easier than folding onesies: Everything, including applied physics and learning Mandarin Chinese.

Just look at the picture at the top of the post. What the hell is that? Why are the arms wrapped around the back? Why does the bottom look like a pair of pants? What am I supposed to do with the snaps? Now, you might think, Mike, you probably just folded a bad one for the sake of this blog. Wrong. I tried. Really hard. In fact, as I try to fold these absurdly small pieces of fabric, one of college basketball coaching legend John Wooden's famous quotes always rings in my head: If you don't have time to do it right, when will you have time to do it over? Now, I guess, John. Now I'll have to do it over!

Phew. Deep breaths. Count to 10.

I'll most certainly keep trying to improve, but in the meantime, please do me a favor: If you see Annabelle and she's wearing a onesie with odd wrinkles or uneven sleeves, don't say anything. Just know that it's not her fault.