Women's Work

Years ago we were visiting my parents. My mother was ironing a white shirt for my father. My three year old was sitting- surprisingly- quiet and watching this.

I was nursing my baby, and keeping an eye on the 3yr old. Prepared to lunge if they went for the cord, or tried to climb the ironing board.

"What's dat?" they asked, as toddlers do. "At's dat?"

My mother murmured "What's what baby?" I watched- lunge at the ready.

"Dat,", they said pointing to my mother. We both looked in the direction of the point.

"Gramma? Grampa's shirt?", I said. "No. Dat? " My mom and I looked at each other, then at 3 yr old.

(Then began the toddler game of offering answers, in that 'Too Hot, Too Cold' guessing game that you do when your child tries to communicate with you. It never grows old and never seems to end.)

Running out of things to guess, my mother tried one more time. "Show me', she said. "Show me what you mean." The 3 year old walked over and tried to grab the iron.

My mother, someone that has ironed dress shirts for, well, at least as long as I had been alive (and had the reflexes of a champion athlete, lifted it up and away from them; and said "This?"

Broad smile from 3 year old. Guessing game completed. They had been mesmerized and confused by the iron. Mom looked at me. "They've never seen an iron? Really?" Skeptical, confused, obviously disappointed. In me.

Indeed. They had never seen an iron.

Oh- I had ironing to 'do', of that I am sure. With no effort at all I could bring to mind the 'laundry area' I had at home. Tucked by the underside of the basement stairs it was a sight to behold. Clothing for our family of four was stunningly present. Some was clean, others dirty, I'm sure some still in the dryer.

Baskets. Piles. Hung to air dry. sorted in optimistic piles of like-colors and washing directions. The iron and ironing board were hanging on hooks, ready for a swipe or two if we needed to go somewhere pressed. As I recall there was a can of spray starch, probably store brand charmingly branded SprayStarch all in one word like they did in the 80's. Maybe even EZStarch or FreeNSmooth? Maybe not ever used, but there because that's what you did. Starch things. When you iron.

That day? That day I felt guilty. Judged. Less than. Lacking. Slovenly. Bad.

My child did not have a toy iron and ironing board, as I did as a child. They had never mimicked their mom doing laundry. Never did the 'clothes' in a box to pretend wash then in a drawer to pretend dry, then use a pretend iron to finish things. Nope.

In my home laundry was seldom completed, and always on its circular journey to either dirty-clean-or put away. Seldom if ever would I consider our laundry 'done'. More a 'fiber installation in progress'.

You know what, though? My child did have books. And stuffies. They made cookies and teeny pie crust cinnamon twists with liberal flour on every surface.

Pretended to nurse their dolls, pretended to read to their stuffed elephant, and delighted in thumbing through the hard copy of the TV Guide that was delivered each week.

They loved She-Ra, their little sister, and watching Fraggle Rock while they sat in their small blue plastic chair shaped like Cookie Monster. They also liked the Frugal Gourmet TV shows and old Hollywood musicals.

It's been a long time since those days. A long time since I sat in the wooden chair in the second floor of my parent's home nursing a baby while my toddler learned about ironing, and understanding I was doing it all wrong.

Today- today- I decided I wasn't a failure because they didn't recognize an iron. That realization came years too late.

Your moment? It might not be ironing. Whatever it is: Don't wait. Decide today.

You are amazing.