...This is the way we iron our clothes,
Iron our clothes, iron our clothes.
This is the way we iron our clothes,
So early Tuesday morning...
Iron our clothes, iron our clothes.
This is the way we iron our clothes,
So early Tuesday morning...
The women of my mother's generation were lucky enough to have a guidebook to good housekeeping.
A simple tune like The Mulberry Bush and they knew which days to wash, iron and mend their clothes. Then they had the luxury to sweep the floor on Thursday and not have to scrub it until Friday. On Saturday they'd bake the bread and on Sundays, I imagine they could break the bread -- at church.
Sounds like the good life, doesn't it?
I know it wasn't. Though I can tell you my mother took much of this to heart and I have vivid memories of her spending hours and hours at the ironing board!
Since we had a ringer washer and a clothesline out back, the dry clothes came in wrinkled -- even on days there was a brisk wind whipping things dry. So my mother, who for some reason could not abide wrinkles, would iron everything. And I mean everything. From our pretty floral dresses to the pink sheets on our beds. Yes, even the sheets! I am not sure about towels -- maybe just the thin dish towels.
I think she liked it.
Weird as it sounds, this undomestic goddess doesn't mind it either. I don't get many opportunities, though. We race down to the dryer when the buzzer goes off so I can snatch the clothes out of there before they get wrinkles. Then it's a nice fold or straight to the hanger. So I guess I try to avoid ironing if possible, but most times, I don't mind when I have to. It's sort of relaxing. You definitely have to pay attention and clear your mind of everything else so you don't scorch your delecates!
It can be stressful, though, when I am running behind in the morning and anything I might want to wear to work needs ironing. Or those days when someone else needs something ironed. And quickly.
This morning, Carter realized he left his Friday school clothes crammed into his gym bag because he changed into jeans after school at a friend's before they went to a movie. So he forgot all about them... until today.
He pulls out his khaki pants and fully expects to wear them -- even though they've been bunched up into a tiny ball for 50-some hours. I look at him and say, no, don't even think about. He goes to his room and comes out wearing a pair that almost look as bad as the first. "What? Did you put those on anyway?" No, he said, this was a different pair.
I look at him, look at the clock, see I'm running behind but think: Screw it, I've got to iron these pants!
Of course I plug in the iron and as I move it, it is leaking water everywhere. It probably spontaneously combusts from lack of use at some point. Anyway, I clean up the mess and try to iron as fast as possible so Carter can still make the bus and I can get ready for work. At that point, I did not even know what I was going to wear but hoped it did not need ironing!
I should have just let him go to school with wrinkled pants but somewhere in the back of my mind, my thoughts were echoing a previous generation that insisted wrinkled clothes would reflect badly on the wearer and his or her mother! So I just had to do it.
In hindsight, I should have told him he'd just have to wait until Tuesday. According to the musical mantra of motherhood, Monday is for washing the clothes only!
A simple tune like The Mulberry Bush and they knew which days to wash, iron and mend their clothes. Then they had the luxury to sweep the floor on Thursday and not have to scrub it until Friday. On Saturday they'd bake the bread and on Sundays, I imagine they could break the bread -- at church.
Sounds like the good life, doesn't it?
I know it wasn't. Though I can tell you my mother took much of this to heart and I have vivid memories of her spending hours and hours at the ironing board!
Since we had a ringer washer and a clothesline out back, the dry clothes came in wrinkled -- even on days there was a brisk wind whipping things dry. So my mother, who for some reason could not abide wrinkles, would iron everything. And I mean everything. From our pretty floral dresses to the pink sheets on our beds. Yes, even the sheets! I am not sure about towels -- maybe just the thin dish towels.
I think she liked it.
Weird as it sounds, this undomestic goddess doesn't mind it either. I don't get many opportunities, though. We race down to the dryer when the buzzer goes off so I can snatch the clothes out of there before they get wrinkles. Then it's a nice fold or straight to the hanger. So I guess I try to avoid ironing if possible, but most times, I don't mind when I have to. It's sort of relaxing. You definitely have to pay attention and clear your mind of everything else so you don't scorch your delecates!
It can be stressful, though, when I am running behind in the morning and anything I might want to wear to work needs ironing. Or those days when someone else needs something ironed. And quickly.
This morning, Carter realized he left his Friday school clothes crammed into his gym bag because he changed into jeans after school at a friend's before they went to a movie. So he forgot all about them... until today.
He pulls out his khaki pants and fully expects to wear them -- even though they've been bunched up into a tiny ball for 50-some hours. I look at him and say, no, don't even think about. He goes to his room and comes out wearing a pair that almost look as bad as the first. "What? Did you put those on anyway?" No, he said, this was a different pair.
I look at him, look at the clock, see I'm running behind but think: Screw it, I've got to iron these pants!
Of course I plug in the iron and as I move it, it is leaking water everywhere. It probably spontaneously combusts from lack of use at some point. Anyway, I clean up the mess and try to iron as fast as possible so Carter can still make the bus and I can get ready for work. At that point, I did not even know what I was going to wear but hoped it did not need ironing!
I should have just let him go to school with wrinkled pants but somewhere in the back of my mind, my thoughts were echoing a previous generation that insisted wrinkled clothes would reflect badly on the wearer and his or her mother! So I just had to do it.
In hindsight, I should have told him he'd just have to wait until Tuesday. According to the musical mantra of motherhood, Monday is for washing the clothes only!
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