I hate doing laundry.
Fortunately I am the sole victim of the consequences of this hatred, as Michael and I each do our own laundry. This means that Michael, a responsible launderer, always has nice clean clothes, whereas I sink into the dregs of fashion options as the days (and often weeks) go by. It is only when I am faced with committing major fashion faux pas when I finally break down and do a load. (What is the plural of 'faux pas'? Faux pass? Faux pases? Faux pi?)
The only time I don't hate laundry is...when there is a baby in my laundry.
I'm not sure if it was just her mood or my smell or what, but this baby was so content to lay back in this pile of clothes and point at stuff around the room.
Also: this little photoshoot gave me yet another way to put off doing laundry. Bonus!