When I was five, I woke up one night and knew I needed to throw up. I shot out of bed, but didn't make it to the bathroom. I threw up all over the floor. I wiped my face on my nightgown and decided that I would clean the throw up in the morning.
Funny thing is, the barf was gone when I woke up. I decided that the throw up was a just a dream. That was the best explanation I could come up with. I went about my day as if I hadn't vomited all over the floor the night before.
It wasn't until years later that I realized that I most definitely threw up. What most likely happened is that my mom stepped in it and cleared away the chunky mess before I woke up that morning. I asked my mom if this was the case. She had no idea. She'd cleaned barf for forty years straight. At some point it all starts to blend together.
I thought about this story last night as I put away laundry. I had just put a skirt that Darla had worn yesterday, which I had washed, back into her drawer.
"Shoot," I thought. "She's probably going to think this skirt is still dirty since she just wore it."
I cut that thought process off quickly. For this to become reality, there's a few prerequisites that need to be fulfilled. First, Darla has to care about dirt. She doesn't. Second, she needs to actually notice when anything gets done. She never does. She goes to school and her room is a disaster. She comes home to a clean room. To her, both look the same.
I closed the drawer with the newly cleaned skirt in it. Doing laundry, cleaning the house, and cooking dinner will just have to be my vomit on the floor story until, twenty years from now, she realizes that these household chores don't get done by magic or in a dream.