I'm tryin' to up my game in my marriage, people. You know, really keep the hubs happy.
Heck, I may even shave my legs tonight and let him know I really mean business.
He's been working tirelessly in the classroom and comes home exhausted. Yet there are still lessons to be planned….and papers to grade….and emails to write…and scores to enter. The work, it seems, never ends for him. But he is joyful in it – thankful to be doing what he loves to do.
So I've been making an extra effort to be gracious and loving towards him.
I've been doing something I swore I would never do.
Not that I was against doing it…
After all, caring for him, our babies, and our home is my job.
But I just always felt that I didn't have room to squeeze it into the schedule…you know, around blogging and other super important things like that.
Yet, here I am. I've reached the point. I've committed myself to his care.
I'm ironing his clothes.
I know. I know.
Some of you may be shouting: What a terrible wife you have been for all these years?! Have you just been letting the most important man in your life walk around in wrinkly clothes?!
The rest of you may be shouting: Make him iron his own! What about female independence?! Burn your bra!
I'd like to think I fall somewhere in the middle.
Stuart has been perfectly happy to throw his dress clothes in the dryer to release the wrinkles…and thus far, I've been more than happy to let him. But as he dressed for work a few weeks ago, I noticed his shirt was inappropriately wrinkly (at least for a professional setting). He's thrown it in the dryer…but it didn't really work.
He went off to teach anyway….wrinkly shirt and all.
I knew I'd reached the line. The line that I'd been thinking about crossing for some time, really.
I couldn't let him do it anymore.
And it's not that I'm worried about what the world thinks of him and his clothes – but it is my job to care for him. To love on him. To make him feel extra special. And ironing his clothes is a small way for me to show him that I've got his back. And his collar. And his pants.
So I've been sacrificing (whoa is me) an hour per week to completely focusing on preparing his clothes for the upcoming week. I set up a show on the iPad after Georgia has fallen asleep for the night and gently begin the methodical practice of ironing – folding, creasing, smoothing.
And truthfully, I think I've been enjoying it more than he does. Seeing all those crisp shirts and pants lined up in a row in his closet makes me feel pretty dang happy.
Knowing that he's cared for.
Knowing that he's been shown love.
It may be a strange way to show my affection, but I know he appreciates it.
And for my man, I'd be willing to iron shirts until the cows come home.
Figuretively speaking, of course.
Because if we actually had cows on our home, I'd probably be out milking them at night instead of ironing shirts.
I'm just sayin'.