Ironing it all out

As some of you long-time readers may know, I’m kind of obsessive-compulsive about ironing.  It’s my father’s fault.  I can also thank him for my aversion to talking on the phone and my freakish need to be nice to people even when they don’t deserve it.  (Yeah, that last one one can screw up your whole life so I suggest being careful if you tend to, like me, attract meannies.)

But I digress.

If you’re not privy to my penchant for ironing, you can catch up here  and here.  I can’t reread these posts too often because  just the mere thought of inhaling that hot iron vapor mixed with the smell of spray starch can get me all a twitter.  And then there are the perfectly pressed creases in my children’s garments, taking them from Goodwill-bound to Boy-Your-Mom-Must-Really-Love-You-Because–She-Irons-Your-Clothes-So-Perfectly-EVERY-DAY. 

Yes, it’s total fantasy but I like to believe in the goodness of other people, remember? 

So I go about my life ironing every. single. day.  The older girls beg me to leave their clothes wrinkly but I liken that to someone telling me not to breathe, and then I get all uneasy and flushed and bloated looking, and then I gasp fiercely that one life-saving breath that spares me from an eternity of wrinkledness.  Heaven will be wrinkle-free, though, I just know it and claim it to be so.

You think I’m kidding.

I walked past the laundry room recently and noticed this and had to smile:

All of the boys’ clothes for the week ironed and hung up by coordinated pieces.  Peyton’s clothes are done the same way but I’ll spare you those pics.  Suffice it to say, while there are other parts of my life that may be less than perfectly pressed, my children look clean and neat and that makes me happy.

I really doesn’t take much.