I enjoyed reading Anna Laetitia Barbauld’s poem “Washing Day.” It makes me think of a poem framed and hanging in my house:
“Cleaning and scrubbing can wait ’til tomorrow
for babies grow up, we’ve learned to our sorrow
So quiet down, cobwebs, dust, go to sleep
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep” (Ruth Hamilton)
I mainly thought of this poem because of the stereotypical femininity of a washing day. Though, clearly in Barbauld’s poem, the speaker is watching others do the washing, and not cleaning herself. I have more respect for the speaker in Hamilton’s poem who must take care of a child and clean.