Wash Day

My Narcissistic Mother had a habit of letting the washing pile up. It was only when my Father dared to comment he was running low on clean clothes that it would dawn on her a wash day was needed, which often meant I was to have a day off school. She herself was hardly likely to run out of clothes, she had an abundance and me....well I either hand washed a few myself or just re-wore them over and over.

Now as with most children of Narcissists I had to be of use to her in some way and so I had been instructed in household chores with great attention to detail, as soon as I was old enough. Eager to both please her and for once `be good enough` and also to avoid a scolding or worse, it was in my best interests to complete my given tasks to her satisfaction. And the more efficient I got the more she beamed her approval, what a good little maid she had trained. For years into my adulthood she would proudly remind me I would do my own clothes washing from the age of 8 and be able to clean the house from top to bottom. She saw nothing wrong in this and even viewed it as an accomplishment of her own that she had trained me so well, so early. And as this is all I had known it seemed quite normal that an 8 year old could do all these things.

 I reprocessed this though when my own daughter got to 8, she was practical and independent and often set about trying to do things for herself {my lad needed some encouragement !} but watching her tidy her room one day I imagined her kneeling on a chair at the sink hand washing her knickers and socks whilst I was taking a nap and it bought home to me how warped things were in my childhood home.

And so in her quiet little `I`m so helpless`voice she would tell me I`d better have the day off to do the washing with her as the stairs {our kitchen was on the 2nd floor} and the carrying were just too much for her with her asthma and it wore her out. Her health issues, and yes there were undeniably a few, varied in severity according to what she wanted to do, they hindered her keeping house and doing anything for me, like parents evening or sports day but never got in the way of her bingo sessions, hair appointments or endless shopping trips.

We had a twin-tub, it was heavy and had to be hauled out from under a work top and pushed up against the sink. I had to rock it from side to side to get it to move, bear in mind it was weighted down inside to keep its stability when it was spinning. Then a hose was attached to the tap and the washer section was filled with hot water. Mother over saw the first few washes as the clean, hot water was for her clothes. I remember clearly the routine, her undies and night clothes first, then more of her washing, lights first, then bed sheets and towels. After they had been washed I would use wooden tongs to fish the clothes out of the steaming water, squeeze myself between the washer and the sink and refill the sink with cold water again and again, rinsing the clothes out, then they were loaded into the spinner and the water was pumped into the sink while the washer was doing the next load. As soon as the spin dryer was done pumping the water out I had to take the clean clothes downstairs and peg them on the line. It was repetitive, boring and tiring work. The washing water was very hot and the detergent powder made my hands itch and then the rinsing water was icy cold, my hands were raw by the time it was over. I eventually began asking for gloves as I got older.

When all her clothes had been done I could pop any of mine in and last of all my Fathers went in. By now she needed a sit down and usually disappeared with tea and a book or as I got older and needed less supervision she would head up to bed for her afternoon nap.

Up and down I went, pegging out, loading, reloading, spinning and re spinning, the front of my clothes usually soaked by now and my arms aching. Finally I had to empty the machine, dry it all out with an old towel and heave the heavy thing back in its place, then the floor needed drying as it was soaked too.

It would take me all day, we would start in the morning {one of the few occasions she was up fairly early} and with luck the kitchen would be back to rights before my Father came home, though I would still be pegging out, fetching in and folding, or in Winter the clothes airers were used. I then had a full ironing basket to get through over the next few days, tackling it bit by bit after school.

I actually used to be grateful I got to pop my own clothes into the washing machine rather than hand washing them and then carrying in the little single spinner to rinse and drain them. If it wasn't the weather to hang them out they were strung across an indoor line at the back of the kitchen where they would take a day or so to fully dry during which time my Father happily sat under them and smoked like a chimney, God only knows how I smelt when I went out in those clothes, I was so used to cigarette smoke I didn't notice it myself.

And so I would be in favour with Mother for a day or two having proved I was of some use.

My Mother first absolved herself from the responsibility of doing my laundry with the excuse of my dry skin. My skin really was terribly dry and flakes of skin would fall like snowflakes from my clothes and bed linen so rather then buying me moisturiser and helping me manage the problem or take me to the Dr`s for advice her response was....

"AMANDA I can`t keep doing ya washin with all them bits floating about when I`m handling ya clothes, its upsetting me chest", she tapped her chest and forced a little fake cough out. I was so ashamed of myself, I always felt like such a failure in a thousand ways and this was just more proof in my eyes I was sort of sub human, never coming up to scratch of what she expected her daughter to be, I always fell short and always felt shamed. Deep shame for no valid reason is a scar many ACON`s {Adult Child of a Narcissist} carry with them after a childhood of abuse and blame instead of nurture and support. And so as she was unable to wash her child`s clothes I was taught to wash my own, at the sink, a few things at a time. I remember kneeling on a chair so I could reach.

A little add on tale here is: When I first started work I became aware of fabric conditioner, something my Mother, who was often `behind the times` with anything that wasn't relevant to her personally, never used. I wanted my clothes to smell like the other girls I worked with, so feeling quite grown up I bought a bottle after watching adverts for it on TV. My Mother spied it and wanted to know what it was for, I explained and let her sniff it, Its too scenty  for me with my asthma she declared, wrinkling up her nose and her expression clouding over, clearly because I had gotten something she hadn`t. When I used it the first time I measured it out in the cap and clearly remember noticing how thick and gluppy it was, slow to pour. It did indeed smell lovely and I was delighted with it. I popped it in the cupboard with the other washing products. 

Next time I came to use it however I picked it up and instantly noticed how much lighter the bottle felt, as I measured it into the cap it gushed out and overflowed, it was a completely different constancy, much more watery, it was obvious it had been watered down, knowing how sly and vengeful she was and the spiteful, petty tricks she`d done behind my Father`s back over the years when he had fallen out of favour, I was certain it was her doing. I never challenged her over it though, she would of denied and raged and I would of been in the wrong for accusing her and it was easier to say nothing.

She really did begrudge me the most basic comfort.

I noticed after that she began buying fabric conditioner herself though the subject was never mentioned again.