An Iron, Wooden Bird And A Shoe

I don't iron.

I throw sorted clothes into the water and add a tide capsule, then transfer them to the dryer and add a Lavender Walmart scented sheet.

After the beep, I fold the towels and plop the bins of separated garments on to the kids beds, but I refuse to iron.

In the morning before the clock clicks on 8, I've figured out dinner and what still needs to be picked up at the grocery.

The school forms are filled out and the bills are paid, stamped and waiting in the mailbox. The dogs are fed and my teeth are brushed.

The days work toward career goals looms ahead and I plunge onward courageously but the iron doesn't turn on by my hands.

Something about that particular Domestic Act reminds me of defeat. Cum Larde from Mount Holyoke, even aware of the delicate balance of Mother and Career.

The day I iron another's clothes is the day that I've given up too much of myself and lost the, "Erin, who carves out the time to paint?"