THREE IS NOT THE NEW SEVEN

Forty may be the new thirty (God, I hope so), brown may be the new black, but three is DEFINITELY not the new seven. Not when it comes to laundry. Or underwear.
I would like to be able to say that I am such a domestic goddess that laundry gets done throughout the week at our house, and that by the weekend it's all neatly folded and hung in the closets, but that would be a BIG FAT LIE, and my pants would be on fire. No, we're the family who is frantically trying to finish up laundry on Sunday night around 10:00. It usually stays on our bedroom floor (folded, at least) in piles until about Thursday of the following week, when mom's had enough and decides that it should return home to its rightful owner. That being said, it was with much sadness that I started the laundry this morning, and counted only 3 pairs of underwear from my son's dirty laundry pile. It's been seven (or at least six) days since our last load of laundry, folks. You do the math. Is this the little boy for whom I boiled the pacifiers that had fallen on the ground? Is he the one that I so carefully bathed--never neglecting the various and sundry crevices that could trap lint and dirt? Is this the pre-teen that I supply with endless bottles of Axe spray and lots and lots of deodorant?
Well, I'm off to look under the bed, on the bathroom floor, and God only knows where else to find the missing garments. Wish me luck. EW!