As is with anything new that comes into your life, you have to get used to its presence and the change it inevitably brings. This can apply to new furniture, carpet, fresh paint or any sort of noticeable difference.

It doubly applies when a new person moves in, as did my daughter’s friend, whom I call my middle daughter (by birth order, not size). Not that I’m comparing her to a piece of furniture, but still, you have to get used to how you move around each other. We have to figure out how to work with her and she has to figure out the dynamics of our family; most especially mine.

However, it’s not really her quandary how to conform to my whims, nor I hers, but she should learn my idiosyncrasies so she’s not surprised by them. I am the momma; the nucleus of the household whether they believe it or not.

Her reactions to my obsessive behaviors only highlight how ridiculous some of my self-imposed rules are. My children have grown up with them; seeing them from someone else’s eyes, just serves to emphasize that I really should get out more.

The perfect example is the laundry. For those who’ve been reading my column for awhile, you know laundry is “my thing.” I do it once a week, have a certain way I do it, and pride myself on completing it in a day, aside from the clothes I hang to dry. Those clothes I have to have folded and put away by the next day in order for my week to be a success.

I hang my biological daughters’ clothes, because they are tall and if I put shirts and pants in the dryer, it shrinks their lengths. My middle daughter is short; by about 4 inches from the shortest in our family (me). We’ve had to adjust to accommodate her stature by moving some kitchen items down to her level.

But the most notable modification to having her in my life is she likes her clothes in the dryer. She doesn’t care about length and she doesn’t like “crunchy” clothes she claims they become from line-drying.

So, while I don’t mind, because I don’t have room to hang more clothes in the winter anyway, I have to sort the clothes as they come out of the washer. Sometimes I make mistakes and her pants end up on the clothes line and one of my daughter’s shirts in the dryer.

Accidently line-drying is no big deal; I can’t ruin clothes that way. One week, though, I pulled one of my youngest daughter’s shirts out of the dryer. I became really upset because it was a new shirt. Short of praying over it before she tried it on, there was nothing I could do but apologize if it had shrunk.

My middle daughter said, “OOOOOHHHHHH” in a sarcastic, mock tragedy sort of way. It made me stop and consider her point of view. Yes, it seemed silly to be upset; it was just a shirt, after all.

I realize such angst is very much a first world problem; at least I have a washer and dryer in which to make tragic laundry mistakes. And as we enter this week of Thanksgiving, I’m happy to have only such a minor issue in my life. It’s good to be reminded once in awhile of my good fortune; maybe not as welcome coming from my short, middle daughter, but it’s good.

Now I think I’ll move the plastic sandwich sacks to the top shelf again. See? The struggle is real.