I really don't hate housework, but I do hate, hate, hate laundry. It's never done--not more than briefly, and it takes hours to fold and put away. Oh--and I MIGHT iron one or two items of clothing a year. Maybe.
While cleaning out the shed over the weekend, my third borne (have I ever mentioned what a smart a%^$# he is?) found an old iron in a box and held it up. "What's this thing?" he asked with mock-innocence.
"A pointless piece of equipment and a symbol of sexist oppression," I replied, looking up from the pile of books I was sorting.
"It's an iron Joe," one of his older brothers told him.
"What's an iron?" Mischief twinkled in his eyes. (This is the same rotten child who announced to the entire church last sunday that his mother hasn't made his breakfast for him since he was six--which isn't true--he was eight . . . )
"It's something unenlightened women use to make themselves feel better about their family's appearance."
My youngest, who was following this conversation with (frightening) earnestness, "What's that mean?"
"It means that insecure people--usually wives and mothers--who believe a person's value is measured by whether their clothes are smooth or not will plug that thing in, heat it up, and run it back and forth across hundreds of articles clothing until they don't see any wrinkles."
He was fascinated. "So is that something people used to do in olden days, or are they still that silly?"
"Some of them are still that silly, but God gave them permanent press and it's helping some. Especially the wives and mothers."
"Wow. I hope my wife is never that silly."
I can move on to the next plain of existence now. My work here is done.
On a serious note, I got a hundred pages edited yesterday and today. I'm closing in on the home stretch of this second draft. Next stop: query letters. I am now officially stressed. And I'm considering putting my third borne up for adoption.