I’ve come to the realization that my life mimics an electrical appliance. I’m an overgrown, walking, talking (I confess, sometimes shouting), iron. As a stay-at-home mom, my primary function is to smooth the wrinkles in my family’s life. Occasionally, I have notions of taking some problems to the cleaners, but experience has taught me it’s best to take care of one’s own dirty laundry. Mostly, I get creative, call those pesky creases pleats, and hope no one notices.
Ironing seems a mindless, often-robotic task, but I’ve concluded it has major implications as I’m preparing fabrics to make their own way in the world. Heat and steam lovingly applied seems to ensure a much smoother path. Starch is never used as stiff is not the desired result.
My productivity could be greatly increased if I really could plug into an electrical outlet. Some days, the fabrics needing my care drain my reserves, and I often wonder why I was given a Sunbeam body when a Rowenta is better suited for the job.
I also have physical features similar to the iron: a stainless steel soleplate, as moms need a suit of armor; steam surge, as I’ve been known to blow from the ears and nostrils, simultaneously; soft-grip handle, of which I’ll refrain from elaboration; retractable cord to unplug, and reel in my attachment in a moment’s notice (this comes in very handy when out with a teenager who suddenly spots a friend); and a large, easy to fill reservoir – fill me with water (or even ice chips), and I can labor for hours.
For the most part, I’m learning through trial and error. I’ve been reading the garment care tags for years, but I’m often confronted with new materials that inspire changes in my methods. The relatively new teen-aged male cotton organdy feels very inflexible and rough, leading me to believe it needs full heat. I’m finding that a lower setting actually works better, and minimizes the scorching. Then there’s the female pre-teen acrylic; it’s very delicate, and I must use the very lowest setting or burn right through.
I’m hoping no one will have long-lasting recollections of instances when I applied far too much heat for the given material. The stubborn, sticky residue left on my soleplate is a visual reminder of the soul I scorched. I’ve found the mess is best cleaned while it’s fresh to avoid smearing on other fabrics, or hardening to a point that’s difficult to remove later.
I fear that by the time I get the hang of this household chore, my ironing days will be over. I’m starting to spit rust, and finding that I care less and less about wrinkle removal, and more about having resilient fabrics that don’t wrinkle much in the first place.
Now if I could just do something about the wrinkles appearing on my face. It seems the more ironing I do, the more wrinkles I have. Since each one has been earned through some pretty rewarding work, I think I’ll call them pleats and wear them proudly.
© 2008 Natalie Whatley