As previously reported on this blog, June is pretty much the most hideous month of the year. I realized the other night that one of the reasons my husband and I are still married is because we agree on so many things, like the fact that the three most stressful months of the year are June, December, and September, in that order. (Note to all engaged couples: The stressful-month ranking is a good litmus test for future compatibility. Try it.)
But now June is mostly behind us, and thank God for that. Eldest has started playing tennis every day, which means I don’t have to yell at him nearly as much about being such a layabout who leaves half-empty bowls of cereal all over the house. Middle is at sleepaway camp for a month, which means fewer lacrosse sticks in the middle of the floor where unsuspecting mothers will trip over them. And yesterday Baby had his first day at the town-sponsored day camp, which means his mother feels like an extra-smart parent because it really is the best value around. (If fairly basic. And, no, the camp does not have rocket ships, despite what Baby might tell you.)
The end of June also means that I finally have a chance to iron. For the past month, I have been collecting clothes that really need ironing, meaning my roster of work choices had also gotten pretty thin. And last night, because I had no one to pack for camp and no medical forms to fill out and no sports practices to take anybody to, I dragged out the ironing board and spent half an hour making the clothes look good again.
I decided that, on a scale of 1-10, my love for ironing is a 9. Easy to do, requires little thought, produces instant results. How many things can you say that about? Nominations welcome.
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