I am a mother on maternity leave. I have two wonderful childrenone who came into the world five years ago, and a second little one who arrived only recently.
Let me tell you about an odd thing that happened, as if in a dream.
It all began with a peculiar, handwritten list my mother-in-law gave me the moment I married her son. The notes on it fluttered and shimmered in my mind: among them, a reminder that my husband is allergic to specific foods, which I dutifully remembered. This was apparently crucial. But one entry shimmered more than the othersit said I must iron his underpants. If not, some invisible bruises might appear in his nether regions, or so the logic floated. In this dream, that made a strange sort of sense.
Well, I reasoned, this is clearly the sign of a caring mum. After all, isnt it lovely when a mother looks after her son so tenderly, even into adulthood? I followed her list faithfully. There was nothing hard about it, though the undergarment ironing left me bemused. My own mother and I had never so much as considered ironing anyones knickers.
When my firstborn son, Henry, entered the dream, I initially used nappies as one might expect. But when we graduated to proper little pants, as if by magic, I took out the iron and began pressing his, too. Soon the piles of underpants for two people began to grow into strange, mountainous moundsgreat clothy hills weaving in and out of my sleep.
Still, I persisted. My mother-in-law insisted that the dragons breath of the iron sent germs packing, that it was essential for downstairs health. She would call sometimes, echoing through my half-dream, and say, Remember, dear, ironed pants keep the child healthy! And I couldnt help picturing tiny gremlins fleeing in terror from each blast of steam.
But now, with a second childa baby girl named LilyI find myself forever chasing times tail, tripping over mountains of unpressed underclothes. There are mothers out there who know this feeling: the impossibility of getting everything done when one child is brand new, and time slides away like soap in the bath.
Last night, my husband Charles drifted past me to murmured, Therere no ironed pants left on the shelf, hinting that perhaps I ought to attack the ever-growing cloth mountain. I was far too weary; I told him he could fetch his own from the un-ironed stack, surely the world wouldnt end.
Later, as I drifted towards sleep, I heard him ring his mother, sounding affronted that his wife simply had no time. Offended, he reported me to her, and the whole surreal circus seemed to revolve around a handful of cotton pants.
Do any of you, I wonder, even in dreams, iron the undergarments of your children? If so, when do you stop? And has anyone found a way to speed up this strange, endless ritual?
