My husband has a professional job. To go with his professional look means professional dress. Well, okay, more business casual than professional, but it means a dress shirt and tie. He has more ties than I have pieces of costume jewelry, but he looks good.
But dress shirts and khakis need to be ironed.
Ironing is the one domestic chore I will not do. I hate it. The shirt never stays in the right shape. I’m accident prone so that hot iron screams for me to burn my hand, foot, I’d probably manage to burn my heel somehow. I do the laundry. I wash, dry and fold (eventually) at least ten loads a week. But I won’t iron his clothes.
So every morning when he’s getting dressed for work and I’m attempting to wake up with my cup of coffee I hear the creak and scrape of the ironing board. Then the hiss of the iron after he’s chosen the color of the day. (I usually surpress the desire to ask the letter and number of the day). After all, it is too early to make funnies.
After he irons he finishes his routine and is off, while I’m wrestling myself and my kids out the door to work or school or daycare. Except now on summer break. And that ironing board sits. Our master bedroom is a decent size, but between the king sized bed and our dressers we have about two feet max of space around our bed to move. Enter the issue with the ironing board. Between the board and our 65 pound mutt that is underfoot and possibly a kid or two trying to spend time with us.
We suck in our guts and maneuver around it. I’ve folded it back up and put it away, but I cringe at the creak of it every time, so usually I just shove it closer to his closet and we try to move in there with it up. Until Saturday at least.
During a crazy summer his job was eliminated. Thanks to God he had already applied for another position in another city. While I had hoped he could get another job locally the stars aligned and he got the new job instead. We are now packing up our house and relocating. His last week at work he wore polo shirts and khakis, not necessarily needing to be ironed. He starts his new job Monday. While the kids and I continue to pack. And maintain sanity while making trips to Goodwill or to buy more bubble wrap or packing tape.
Believe me, I’m petrified to do that parenting thing solo for a bit until we move into our new (still haven’t found one) house. And I’ll miss him being around. But I’ll manage the domestic stuff and parenting stuff. (Local friends, feel free to bug us, take a kid or two or three for any period of time, grab a box or a bottle of Lysol.)
But there is one thing I don’t have to think about or miss. I will not miss that ironing board. It’s not moving with us either.