Friday, April 17, 2009


There is a very short list of things that I don't do around the house. I do pretty much everything it seems, and there are times that I wonder, sometimes aloud, if anyone else does anything.

Tom has known certain things about me since well before we were married. I don't iron. Anything. Don't do it. I break out the iron roughly once a year. In college, Tom had to wear a dress shirt and tie for work, and he ironed all his own clothes. I figure he knows how to do it, so why should I? I am not terribly good, especially at ironing dress shirts. So I don't. When it's time for him to get new work clothes, I will only buy him the wrinkle-free stuff. If I get it out of the dryer in a reasonable amount of time and hang it up, there is no need to iron. It's fantastic.

I don't pick up dog poop. Not willingly anyway. I have done it, but always with great reluctance. When Tom broke his foot after Ashley was born, I had no choice. Thinking he was funny, he took a picture of me. As if to capture some elusive endangered species outside it's native habitat. I've done it a few times since we moved here, but it's not high on my list of things to do. I figure the yard is his department. I don't cut the grass or fertilize the lawn either for that reason.

There is one thing that I am forbidden from doing. Something that I am so bad at that I am not even allowed to attempt it. Something that Tom always, 100% of the time, is responsible for doing on his own. Something that the kids know that I can't do, and don't even bother asking about. I can't make pancakes.

There is just something about the process that escapes me. I don't know if it's the batter that I can't master, or if my cooking technique is bad. We have one pancake mix we use. We have one griddle to make them on. He uses all the same stuff I try to use, and it's no comparison. I don't know how I always manage to screw them up, but my pancakes are pathetic. He can make blueberry pancakes, banana pancakes, chocolate chip pancakes and even homemade waffles like a professional. Mine are horrible. I don't even try anymore.

So if you're ever in the neighborhood on a weekend morning, and you smell something amazing coming from our house, know that it's not me. The man of the house is in the kitchen. You'll find me relaxing on the couch, coffee cup in hand. It's nice to not be in charge sometimes.

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