A Losing Battle

Something that I consider a great strength AND a great weakness in myself is my follow through. If I start something, I finish it. I work hard until the job is done. Consequently, I sometimes never start things that I know I cannot finish. Like the laundry. My long time nemesis. At any given time in our house, there is a giant pile of clean laundry waiting to be folded, and an enormous pile of dirty laundry that is longing for a little lovin' from the washing machine. At this very moment, Mount Everest is blocking the access to the washer and dryer by way of the kitchen. You either have to brave a climb and hope for the best, or go around to the back door where the washer and dryer are quite easily within reach. These piles move from place to place within the house, depending on whether or not we are expecting company and if there is a remote possibility that that company might have the misfortune of seeing my bedroom with the door open. I consider it a skill to always know which piles are dirty and which are clean. When you have no laundry room, this whole task takes on difficulties that one must learn how to cope with. I have become quite gifted at finding an article of clothing or a dish towel in a couch full of clean laundry without even touching the pile. And yes, I more often employ my couches as laundry holders than butt resters. I have purchased all kinds of laundry baskets and implemented numerous rules on where dirty laundry should be put. I enlist help whenever I can to put laundry away. But no matter what I do or try, this laundry monster is still hanging over my head. I frequently blame Andrew for my woes because he wears three different outfits a day, but that may actually be my fault for teaching him that gym shorts should not be worn more than once before washing, or the gym may actually kick him out.
I once was invited to a Relief Society Enrichment Night, where I was told there would be a guest speaker there to talk about organization. Then I was told that this guest speaker has a 3 year old who does his own laundry. I boycotted the event on the premis of being disgusted with and refusing to take advice from anyone who makes their 3 year old do that kind of thing. Whack Job is the term that comes to mind. What kind of horrible woman does that? Does the child also cook his own meals and tuck himself into bed at night? I'm sure this woman has a lot of time on her hands and maybe a little more sanity than the rest of us, but that is not the kind of sanity that I am seeking. (Sorry for the rant, I didn't see it coming.)
So here I am with my laundry nemesis mocking me around every corner of my home, and I know not what to do. I think for now I will make peace with it, let it win this battle, and try to take it by surprise when Drew is no longer interested in jumping into the piles of folded laundry as though it were a heap of freshly raked autumn leaves.