I have just left the laundry room. Not merely because the last of 5 loads of wash is now safely in the washer, not only because almost all the camping gear that was piled around the laundry room door is finally stowed in the garage and I can walk out of the laundry room, no even those milestones are insufficient to propel me to my blog when I should be getting into my jammies.
What brings me to you is . . . sharpies. Yes, that mainstay of moms making identifying marks on the belongings of their progeny has drawn me to write a bit.
You see, my darling daughter, generally a bright, well-adjusted, sensible, funny, and all around Good Kid came home the other day with a fetching sketch drawn on her favorite pair of yoga pants. Drawn with a sharpie. Yes, in-delible-deedy-do.
And what's a good mom to do? I broke out the prewash, both varieties. I sprayed the picture liberally, let it sit, and then washed it. Still there. I soaked it in isopropyl, which is rumored to break down the ink so it releases from the fibers. Only so-so results; the cloth around the drawing is immaculate, and likely free of any germs or viruses, but the sketch remains. I even scrubbed with a toothbrush to see if I could convince some of the ink to come out. Limited success with that plan as well.
I wonder how she got that bored that she had to draw on her clothes, and why ever in indelible ink? Asking her didn't help much; though she was aghast to learn that indelible really did mean in there for good.
I hope she likes the sketch she drew, it'll be there until the pants fall apart around it.
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