02 April 2012

Too many irons in the fire

Genteel young men?
I want to be that wife, that mother, that person who cares about a nicely pressed pair of trousers and button down, but I.am.not. I once was. I think. Or maybe that is just the way I see myself back in the day when I had only 1 or 3 kids who did not need me to read latin or help solve complicated math problems whilst wielding a bb gun. The other day I asked my oldest to fetch the ironing board to bring to my bedroom in hopes that seeing the piece of ugly metal architecture, I would feel motivated to iron the way some feel about having a treadmill or Stairmaster in their bedroom motivates them to exercise. "O, it's just the inconvenience that is getting in the way of my slack. If I make it more convenient, then I will use it. And then I will change". Well, Ha! First, I had to explain to my 12 year old what an ironing board is and where he could find it-in the bowels of the basement. Then I had to remove the 5 year old from surfing "the board"-wrong kind of board, my darling. It set nicely in my ample-sized bedroom for a few days. Eventually the inevitable happened. Like the many pieces of gym equipment before it, it became a place to house clothes as they awaited their fate. I stared down that piece of padded metal til one night I found it politely folded and hidden away-IN MY CLOSET! While I was away for the evening and in hopes of tidying our untidy bedroom my Mister had asked the very same boy who had brought up this piece of heavy metal to "please put it away-in mommy's closet"(subtext so that every time she goes to select a pair of shoes or a towel, she has to have a moral stare down with her nemesis). I read recently a perfectly sane woman (who isn't Amish)write about the comfort she takes in sleeping on ironed sheets (that she has ironed herself no less!). I cannot fathom that. It took me 3 weeks and an impending formal ceremony in which my boys were performing for me to be shamed to come face to face with my Rowenta and a glass of water to steam bow ties and trousers and oxford button downs. I threw in a pair of my own slacks for kicks as well as one of the Misters many shirts. You know what? It was kind of fun. The boys looked dapper in their ironed shirts, and I even watched a little Hulu to calm the sting of this unsavory chore. A far cry from heating the iron on the fire and using a towel to keep from burning my fingers. We've come a long way from the chores of yore. And yet I am still lazy enough to be perfectly fine with my gentlemen wandering around unkempt and un-ironed. xo

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