My kid’s heading to college — and all I can talk about is laundry

Who knew there were so many types of laundry hampers? Plastic, canvas, mesh. Duffel, rolling, backpack. Stackable, nesting, over-the-door. Some have side pockets for detergent. Others, compartments for sorting. I’ve spent countless hours scrolling through descriptions, doing side-by-side comparisons and drilling down into reviews.

The hamper is not for me. I’ve used the same straw basket since graduate school. It’s held up and gets the job done.

I’m hamper shopping for my 18-year-old, who is getting ready for college. I’ve purchased three already: a hanging canvas bag, a pop-up hamper with straps, and the latest, a rolling backpack-style bin, so complicated it came with assembly instructions.

As the college move-in date nears, and my anxiety grows, so does the number of hampers, each one bigger than the last.

And I’ve made laundry independence my summer project. I started with gentle questions to initiate action. (“I wonder if doing laundry might free up some wardrobe options?”) Then we moved on to laundry cycle completion.

As the college move-in date nears, and my anxiety grows, so does the number of hampers, each one bigger than the last.

My son has obligingly (though grudgingly) tolerated my simulations of “laundry in the real world.” For example: He starts the washer and sets a timer. If he doesn’t move the laundry to the dryer within two hours, someone else (e.g., me) unceremoniously dumps it on top of the dryer. After 48 hours, it disappears.

“Mom! Where are my clothes?”

“Hmm.” I tip my head, pretend to think. “Maybe they went to the office.”

“The office?”

“The Housing Office. That’s where I hear they take unclaimed laundry.” This is true. I heard it at a parent webinar when his college shared how we — I mean, our kids — might level up laundry skills.

We made some progress with self-initiated laundry, then lapsed. That’s when I lasered in on the hamper as the ultimate solution. I was looking for the magic hamper that would not only fit the dorm room dimensions I’d studied online, but also make my son want to use it. His building has wonderful amenities: a convenience store, computer lab and gym. But no laundry room. I pictured him trekking across a quad with the backpack hamper. I pictured snow and ice — which in upstate New York might begin around Labor Day — wind howling.

“Are you going to be able to carry that all the way to the laundry room?” I asked.

He sighed. “I’m sure I can. But I have an idea for a better hamper.” He then described a frame he could weld (once he learns to weld), to which he would affix casters and a bicycle wheel and power with parts from an electric scooter. The contraption would be his on-campus transportation.

I listened, dazzled by the self-driving hamper that would get him all over campus and do just about everything — except laundry.

“I am so glad you’re going to an engineering program,” I said.

I know washing clothes is not the most important skill. There are heavier topics to address: finances, health care proxies, birth control, mental health, time management, self-advocacy, and more. And I do seize opportunities to discuss hypothetical scenarios far more consequential than laundry. What if a class isn’t what you expected, or you’re struggling to keep up? Do you know how to talk to a professor if you need help? How will you handle your budget? What will you do if a party feels uncomfortable? Do you know how Narcan works if somebody needs it?

But talking about — and doing — laundry feels much more manageable. The Big Scary Things, less so.

I realize now that my shopping wasn’t about buying the perfect hamper. It was about buying time.

Today’s college students have so much more to think about than I did when I left home in 1989. I somehow packed a couple of suitcases, shipped a box, flew across the country, and then took a bus to my college campus. It’s hard to picture my son doing that, not because he’s incapable, but because the landscape has changed. College students today face a world that’s more online, more expensive, less certain in its job prospects, and arguably more dangerous – a world where simply attending a party carries risks we never imagined, and where personal safety can no longer be taken for granted.

It’s also hard to picture him doing what I did because I’ve hovered, despite my best intentions — even in this “summer of self-reliance.” I encouraged him to seek summer employment, but still kept an eye out for job listings. I urged him to schedule his own appointments, then quietly set phone reminders as a backup. I reminded him to check his email regularly for college communications, but still read the messages over his shoulder, just to make sure nothing in his inbox was on fire. I see now that the hovering and the launching must separate. Fall semester will arrive, and launch he must.

Besides, even if his laundry skills are wobbly, he has so many other skills I didn’t have at his age. He can do an oil change. Hook up a new router and get the Wi-Fi running. Use power and hand tools. Refill a prescription. He can both troubleshoot and ask for help. Everything else is on YouTube.

I may return Hamper Number Three. I realize now that my shopping wasn’t about buying the perfect hamper. It was about buying time. It was about finding a big enough container for all my own anxiety. I’m not worried about his running out of clothing as much as I fear the clock will run out. Yet as long as I’m still teaching laundry, it’s still summer, he’s 18, he’s up in his bedroom, lounging on his unmade bed. The sheets are clean. For now.

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