This morning when I was gleefully ironing my husband’s shirt (Honestly, I love ironing…), I remembered back to when we were first married and I hadn’t a clue how to iron. I had been the stereotypical, spoiled only child – my mom did all my laundry and ironing and I certainly never interferred. She seemed to enjoy doing it and I seemed to enjoy NOT doing it…it was an arrangement that purred along for 18 years.
Anyway, I found myself 19, married to a serviceman (Air Force) and standing before an ironing board, an iron and a dress uniform he had handed me. See, I’d been of the understanding that he’d be taking over where my mom left off – but here he stood looking at me expectantly. It didn’t take me too long to figure out how to turn the thing on, thankfully the instructions were clear and printed on the front. I even poured water into the hole that was too small – and onto his pants. Michael never saw that, the poor baby had left the room, assuming I knew what I was doing. (That or he’d gone off to laugh.)
When he came back, I handed him the pants and smiled proudly. When he looked at them, he asked “Where are the creases?” Still proud and thinking I’d done a good thing, I said, “I ironed them out.” Then he went on to let me in on a secret, the creases are supposed to be there. Took a while to get the things back in.
Over the next year I struggled with ironing his pants, sometimes he had creases, sometimes he didn’t – sometimes he’d have just one. They were very unpredictable.
Then, thanks be to the wardrobe gods, one weekend we were staying with my grandparents. My grandmother (who had two sons in addition to a husband) had been ironing longer than I’d been alive – so I got an idea. The next morning when Michael and I were getting ready to go somewhere, I acted like I was running a little further behind than I was – knowing that one of the sweetest people in the world would ask if there was anything she could do to help.
She did. There was. And I watched.
Oh, the craftmanship! Effortlessly, she folded the pants, lined up the cursed creases and did her magic. I noticed right off the bat the difference in our techniques – her elbow wasn’t flailing, she wasn’t biting her lip, she wasn’t putting all her weight down on the ironing board. She was actually pressing rather than ironing and I watched her every deft move.
I learned more just by watching someone who knew what they were doing than I ever did by thrashing around myself or by reading articles.
Ironically, I came to love ironing and I insist on everyone in my family bringing me their clothes to press.
If there’s anything in your world that you’re unsure of – find someone who does it well and watch. (A grandmother comes highly recommended.)
Not long ago, I got to be on the other end of the scenario. I was making homemade doughnut holes and one of my daughters came in and perched on the counter – she said she wanted to know how to make them taste better than the bakery’s. Of course, she could have been somewhat sincere, but I also know that beating her sisters and father to the first warm doughnut holes wasn’t something she minded.
Hmmm, they sound pretty good right now. I’d better run to the store…
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