>Hampered

In our house, there is a hamper that I hate with a white-hot fiery passion.

It was intended to hold my youngest stepdaughter’s dirty clothes. However, you’re more likely to find it open and empty in the center of her room, nestled cozily among the dirty clothes strewn about the floor. And that’s on a good day.

On a bad day, the hamper doesn’t make it to her room at all. Instead, it sits at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for its owner to retrieve it after the two pairs of underwear and one stray sock inside have been washed on laundry day. Yes, it sits. And it sits. And it sits and sits and sits, despite the fact that I have put that hamper smack dab in front of the stairs when I know she’s going to go up them. And I have even turned it over and blocked the stairs so that she can’t go up without stepping over it. Doesn’t matter.

It sits until I take it upstairs and put it in front of her (inevitably closed) door. I lean it against her door so that it will fall into her room when she opens it. Yet somehow, she manages to keep that from happening. The hamper remains in front of her door, two days after I put it there.
I turn it sideways in front of her door. She simply steps over it. This continues until I finally cave and kick the freaking hamper into her room as hard as I can, goldarn!

You’re probably wondering now why I don’t just ask her to put the hamper away. Well, that would be too easy. Better to wait and see how long it will take her to notice that there’s a big fat fugging hamper in front of her door! Hello!

And I can’t understand why my husband says breastfeeding makes me hormonal…

This post originally appeared on Parents.com.