We bought our sons each a loft bed from Ikea a few years back that were exactly the kind of bed I wished I could have when I was a kid, sleeping on a box spring. (The boys got the mattresses. Stupid patriarchy.) They don't make them anymore so I can't show you a link, sufficed to say that they A) aren't terribly 'ikea' and B) are terribly awesome.
They are also terribly tall and that wasn't really a problem for us until I went to change the sheets. I'm, like, a midget dwarf. Well, maybe not so short that I can pose for trophies or anything, but I think I'm under the legal height limit to be a flight attendant which sucks because I've got this Pan Am bag* and I'm totally ready to use it. I'm definitely short enough that I can't kiss my kids goodnight from their beds and I certainly can't change their sheets for them anymore.
This means that washing their sheets is left up to them. It's perfectly fine, I think, to expect them to wash their own bedding. They are 11 and 13. By 11 and 13, I was washing my own laundry and that of four other people uphill both ways in the snow on a box spring. They are responsible for washing their own laundry as it is, and I just kind of assumed that they were pulling their sheets off the bed every once and a while and hosing them out.
This story ends exactly as you expect it to.
My oldest pulled his sheets off and threw them on top of the washer. I picked them up to throw them inside of the washer and came to several minutes later, beads of cold sweat pooling on the tile under my head. A glutton for punishment, I called for 2of3 to pull his sheets off, too. Over the railing he tossed, and I am not exaggerating: four pillows, two comforters, three flat sheets, a fitted sheet, two baby blankets and three decorative pillows. Baby girls' decorative pillows.
I stood in the middle of a pile of linens which smelled like gym socks, Axe body spray and my dead grandchildren. I reached down to pick those up and I died.
Turns out, God will resurrect you on the spot if you die in the middle of doing disgusting laundry that hasn't been washed in what the 14C levels have dated back to possibly 2010. Stupid patriarchy.
There are some things my children can do, much to my dismay, as evidenced by the fumes coming off their bedsheets. There are few things, it turns out, that a little Downy and a lot of vinegar can't undo, as evidenced by new children's freshly-made beds and my current, absolutely blissful state of abject denial.
*Just in case disclaimer: I got the bag for free from Sony at their premiere of Pan Am at BlogHer 2011. It was way fun and I totally had the hottest date in the room. Since I'm too short to get to use it to be an international spy or have international love affairs, I suppose I could be convinced to part ways with it. Leave a comment and tell me why you'd be great at super secret spydom or super secret booty and I'll draw a name for it.