For the first time since the purchase of my washing machine and dryer, they are empty. 
Washing machine? Empty. 
Dryer? Empty. 
And, before you ask, no, they are not broken.
From the moment that sure to be sainted Sears deliveryman deposited them into their new home in our mud room, they've housed load after load of our laundry. More often than not, they've housed the same load for a day or two at a time. But, that was never something a good pour of vinegar and another spin in the washer couldn't fix.
We're a family of five. Three wild natives masquerading as our children , a mud pit for a backyard, and cloth diapering our youngest two have kept those two appliances happily humming along hour after hour, day after day, year after year, going on four years.  There has always been laundry. Always.
But, yet, here we are at the end of the day without nary a load working up a good suds. My dryer balls are silenced for now. There aren't even piles of sorted laundry along the floor, either. 
And, speaking of floors. My bedroom floor is also lacking in the laundry department. The mountains of clean clothing to be folded and put away that usually greet me are indeed, folded and put away. 
Frankly, I'm still in a bit of shock at this strange occurrence. Disbelief had me check the washer twice just to make sure. Still empty. 
Repent, good people. For surely the end is at hand. How else can I explain away the fact that today I conquered laundry? 
Laundry fairies? I think not. 
Tomorrow, as they say, is a brand new day. And, with it there's sure to be laundry.

Eight minutes. Eight minutes and forty-seven seconds, to be exact. And, that's how long it took for anarchy to take reign in my natives' wild, tribal beating little hearts. And, from taking hold of their hearts it moved on to my house. 
Sunday mornings can be somewhat hectic and stressful for our tribe. Honeyman has to be at church much, much earlier than us. He's usually out the door before the natives even wake leaving me to wrangle and corral all by myself. There's the feeding, hiney wiping, nose wiping, cowlick taming, and yelling.  More yelling than any decent on her way to church mama should be allowed. And, if time allows, I may have a moment to spare to drag a baby wipe across my face and call that fancy enough.
That's just the getting getting ready portion of our Sunday mornings, too. There's the last minute expedition launched in efforts to locate the shoes and Bibles that have miraculously disappeared since they were set out the night before. And, don't even get me started on amount of blood, sweat, and tears that's involved in getting the sweet blessings from above strapped into their five point harness, Latch, NASA approved, swear word invoking car seats. 
This morning's routine was interrupted with what I can only assume were tryouts for best in show of anarchy. Up until time for my shower our morning had been going better than it typically does. But, as I said earlier, eight minutes and forty-seven seconds was all it took for the natives to go completely Lord of the Flies on me. 
Why eight minutes and forty-seven seconds? Because that is precisely how long I was in what was one of the more peaceful showers I've had to date. I'm thrilled to report that not one wild thing opened my shower door to report the behaviors of the other wild things. Nor, were there any sounds that indicated loss of life or limb by them as well. Clearly, God had smiled upon me this morning. Thank you, Jesus. 
However, the moment I emerged from my bathroom still dripping, the chaos became apparent. A once full jar of peanut butter was open in my bedroom floor. It was no longer full. Nor, in the jar for that matter. Señor Fluff-n-Stuff Squishy Pants was peeling the framed mattings away from his professional newborn photographs.  And, the older two were still in their pajamas, teeth unbrushed, watching cartoons in clear defiance of their task of watching the baby.
But, the real handiwork rivaling that of Dennis the Menace, was found in the kitchen. The sink was running, cereal covered the floor, there was jam and butter all over the counter where scout ants were already calling for back up. Sweet potatoes were assigned random locations, half a loaf of bread was on the floor out of its bag, and there was a decidedly burnt odor about the place. 
Heaven help me. 
Do you know the serenity prayer? I do. It's not just for those who attend secret meetings. It's useful in all manner of situations. Specifically, motherhood. Try it. You'll see. 
It was used more than once as I put the kitchen back together. I'm not sure it was ever meant to be growled in the manner in which it was this morning, but I was digging deep.
One can clearly see that our Sunday morning routine isn't for the faint of heart. And, while it often leaves one and all in tears, they're often dried, or at least subsiding by the time the mommy mobile slides into its parking space at church with a heave and a sigh of exhaustion that almost mimics its driver. 
That's what church is and about. It's family. It's the place to take that hostile takeover of a morning and say, "I'm tired, but I made it. I am here. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you for rest for the weary, for I am indeed weary. And frazzled. And, quite possibly coated in peanut butter. But, I made it."