Ironing

You should see the drying rack in our laundry room right now. It's overflowing with clothes that need to be ironed. So chock-full, in fact, that the other night when I was sitting at the kitchen table blogging after the girls were in bed, it fell over from the weight and the clothes all landed on the ground in a heap of sleeves, pants legs, and hangers. Annoying.

As you might have guessed from the current state of the rack, ironing is my least favorite chore. Therefore, I've somehow managed to pass it off on Dale.

I know that I am very lucky to have a husband that irons. In fact, while talking with my mom and dad about this subject last night, Dad indicated that he remembers ironing. One shirt. One time. Long ago.

My mom doesn't remember it.

So, again, let me preface this post by saying that I am keenly aware of how lucky I am...

But the problem with this arrangement is that my husband doesn't need the ironing to be done as often as I do. I am not exaggerating when I say that he has AT LEAST 60 golf shirts in his closet. And that's at this very moment, exclusive of the 15-20 that are hanging on said drying rack. It's unbelievable, really. His hobby is golf. And any time he plays a new course, he has to buy a polo shirt with the course's logo. Resulting in a never-ending supply of golf shirts at his disposal.

I, on the other hand, have maybe 10 shirts that I wear to work and rotate through during the summer. So when we have 2 weeks of laundry hanging on the rack, I have to dig to the depths of my closet to find something suitable to wear (because I hate ironing in the morning before work, and I'm too lazy to do it at night before bed). It's kind of a game to see how long I can go without having to break down and iron.

So, this morning, I donned my last, and least favorite, pair of ironed khakis (I'm embarrassed that I probably have 10-15 pairs of khaki pants/capris, as well, all of which are also hanging on the drying rack, wrinkled as can be) and a Carolina blue polo shirt that has an interlocking NC embroidered on it. Not great work attire, but since I work in the UNC athletics department, I can get away with it, even though it's not something I wear often.

When Ivie woke up, Dale and I both went into her room (Mac was still asleep). I went to her chest of drawers to pick out her clothes, and, as I stood there, she looked over at me and her first words of the morning were not, "Good morning, Mommy!" or "How did you sleep, Mommy?". Nope. She looked at me and said, quite succinctly...

"Mommy, I don't like your shirt."

Now we all know that it wasn't because of the interlocking NC. She loves the Tar Heels! But I think she was instead noticing that it's not usually something that I wear to work. Or at all, really, since, much to Dale's chagrin, I don't golf and therefore don't wear polos very often.

Dale and I just laughed, and his first response to her comment was, "THAT'S going to be in a blog!".

And he's right. Maybe it will encourage him (or even me, for that matter) to set up the ironing board tonight. We wouldn't want our daughter to be embarrassed by her parents! We've got plenty of time for that to happen when she's older...