ironing, ban, no ironing, household chores, ban

There is no ironing in my house

There is no ironing in my house. We don’t even own an iron. Actually I think my friend bought me one in disgust. But I don’t know where it is. I definitely do not have an ironing board or one of those squirty water spray things.

Nothing is ever ironed. And I don’t send my laundry out. Occasionally I have something dry cleaned. But I mostly live a creased and rumpled existence.

The fact of this occurred to me when I was changing the sheets in my bedroom and I, briefly, wondered what it would be like if everything was flat instead of screwy. And I thought, “My children will never iron, because they know nothing of ironing.” My mother never ironed. She had someone come and do it but they were a pain in the arse and I have always associated ironing with an annoying pedancy. So it’s my little rebellion and I am forcing this rebellion onto my crumpled children. It’s not their rebellion but they are living it nonetheless.

I can’t really cook, because no one showed me how. So I bake and scrape and whizz with the children in order to give them at least the vaguest sense of how things are done. I grew up when M&S ready-meals were considered gastro. I can still taste the sweet and sour pork one. I probably always will.

I will continue to do all the work to try to make sure that the madness I pass down is different from the madness I inherited. Different anxieties. Different priorities. Different mistakes. But they are my own.

But I still won’t iron. Perhaps my children will grow up and feel a passionate need to be surrounded by crisp, tightly tucked-in linen, all while wearing perfectly starched white shirts. Someone somewhere will show them an iron and they will never look back. And that will be their rebellion. Losers.

SHARE! SHARE! SHARE!
Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterEmail to someone