Who irons the pants in your family?

I can’t iron clothes without thinking of my parents. For me, this is a pleasant association. The hot hoof of the iron releasing great whoofs and chuffs of steam, my parents taking pride in clean and stiffened clothing.

Mom did most of the ironing in our house, but Dad showed me how to do it elegantly, flattening clothes with an almost fond touch, the iron gliding across the starched sleeves of his blue dress shirts. He would give me 25 cents for each shirt I starched and ironed well for him, a rate that could yield several dollars a week if I kept after it.

One day, years after this, I was ironing while Mom was in the room folding other clothes. I mentioned slyly that Dad seemed to be better at ironing than Mom, and she scoffed. She actually scoffed. “That’s because he doesn’t have to do it.”

“Oh…” I murmured. This was a clue about the dynamics of married life that I hadn’t expected and felt embarrassed about exposing.