Death Throes of a Dryer

My drier died. Twice. Actually, the first time it was only in its pre-death spiral, with the funny noises and the smell of burnt lint. But like any good home warranty owner, I called the nice repairman and he came out to fix it. Yay! I got one more load of laundry done before it decided that enough was enough, already, and this time it really kicked the bucket. The repairman came out again and decided that a new motor was just what we needed. Of course, they don't simply keep new dryer motors lying around in their trucks, so they have to go get mine. And of course, my dryer is older than most highschool juniors, so they have to order it. Which means I am without a dryer at least until early next week. Which of course means that I'm going to be schlepping my laundry to the laundromat and trying to take care of it there while keeping track of a curiosity-and-hunger-driven three-year-old. I think that's the most intimidating part of the whole scenario, trying to keep the mini from rolling all over the sure-to-be-less-than-sparkling floor (at least I know what dirt is on my own floor!) or running outside to play hide-and-seek with unaware drivers or splashing and jumping in a puddle of who-knows-what that hasn't yet been cleaned up or maybe trying to eat that year-old cheet-oh that she found when she was trying to see what was under all those washing machines. Playdate anyone?