Mama-Come-Lately

Last week, I realized our baseball team was in the playoffs, or nearly there. I’m not sure which because I don’t pay much attention to baseball, or any sports except sumo wrestling, which I’m sad to say is not covered on the nightly news like it is in Tokyo.

But anyway, I figured out that our team needed to win that night’s game to advance, and it had been a while since I’d sent a photo of the baby to my former coworkers. They are, generally speaking, baseball enthusiasts. I also knew there was at least one Cardinals shirt among the kid’s scads of Onesies, because this is a Baseball Town and he had received several, along with a teeny-tiny ball cap.

Late that afternoon, I plopped the baby on the bed, snapped a few shots, and sent the cutest one to my former colleagues. Our team won, and I was urged to dress the baby in the shirt again for the next game.

Next day, while doing my normal chores and simultaneously preparing for a weekend houseguest, i.e., frantically vacuuming during naps, I made a horrifying discovery when I went to shift the laundry. That little shirt, that cute, tiny red thing I know I had washed at least once before, had turned a bunch of stuff pink.

Yes, I know I should segregate my laundry. It’s just that most days, it doesn’t seem worth the effort.

Anyway, I tossed the load in the dryer and ceased to think of it.

Yes, I know I shouldn’t have done that if I was at all serious about ever trying to get that color out. Sleep deprived, people. Sleep. Deprived.

Next on the docket was a load of whites, and I figured, hey, maybe it’s worth throwing those pink bibs in there. Surely they’ll get lightened up a bit. Maybe they’ll even come out white.

Friends, that is not what happened. What happened was, the evil dye from that evil little shirt transferred from the three pink items onto the rest of the whites. Except for my husband’s button-down shirts — let’s hear it for cotton-poly blends!

But that little shirt had gone too far. I went on the warpath, by which I mean I Googled “dye remover” and went to the store I thought might have it. Success. I bought three boxes along with a bottle of wine (for the house guest!), came home and opened up the box to read the instructions. And that’s when I learned that you can’t use the stuff in a front-loading machine. Of course.

Ten minutes later, I had a big pot of water and dye remover simmering on the stove and was wearing rubber gloves. I dipped item after item into it, stirring constantly with my long wooden spoon per the instructions and feeling like a witch over her brew thanks to the semi-noxious smell (they’re not kidding about adequate ventilation).

It worked. It worked so fast and so well it took some of the original dye off a few things. Folks, I’m here to tell you Rit Dye Remover is your friend, and it’s on sale at the Esquire Schnucks.

And now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go make sure that cute, evil little shirt is in with the dark load so the baby can wear it for the next game.