The Laundry Monster's Secret Lair

It was Saturday, a day traditionally dedicated to the Herculean task of conquering Mount Laundry. My arch-nemesis, the overflowing hamper, loomed. 'Leo, darling,' I cooed, attempting to sound less like a stressed parent and more like a benevolent sorceress, 'time to help Mummy sort the clothes!'

Leo, 7, a child whose imagination was only rivaled by his ability to leave banana peels in the most improbable places, bounded in. 'Can I be the Laundry Monster?' he shrieked, eyes wide with the thrill of impending chaos. 'I devour dirty socks!'

I, foolishly, agreed. What followed was less 'sorting' and more 'performance art'. Leo, with a laundry basket balanced precariously on his head, proceeded to 'devour' every sock in the vicinity, not into the washing machine, but into various hiding spots he deemed 'the Laundry Monster's secret lair'.

I found my husband's favorite lucky socks under the sofa, a pair of my own sensible sensible underpants in the cat's scratching post, and Leo's entire collection of superhero socks (which were decidedly *not* dirty) carefully arranged like a tiny, colorful altar on his pillow. The cat, Mittens, looked mildly offended.

'The monster was very, very hungry!' he declared, beaming, covered in a fine mist of lint and triumph. I sighed, surveying the new, avant-garde disarray. At least the living room now had an undeniable 'narrative flow'. And the socks were... somewhere.