I – ron – ing

My hubbs wakes me up this morning as he’s getting ready.

Hubbs: Do I have any pants?

Me: I don’t know – do you?

Hubbs: Did you I-RON my pants for me?

Me: It’s iron. And no I did not. Today was supposed to be your day off. I ironed the shirts on Sunday and was going to do the pants today. I can only do so much I-ron-ing before my chest kills me and you know it.

Hubbs: What pants am I supposed to wear?

Me: Maybe you could I-Ron them yourself.

Son (who is trying to snuggle through a bit more sleep with me): Yeah DAD. I-ron your own pants.

Hubbs: (giving me an evil grin) Son, are you going to i-ron your own pants when you grow up?

Me: DON’T even try to go there.

Son: Yes. I will I-ron my own pants. Unless my chest hurts like mamas. Then I won’t i-ron.

Hubbs: What if your wife wants to I-ron your pants for you?

Me: Don’t even try it. You will not be indoctrinating my son into your 1950’s sexist Russian views. He can iron his own pants when he grows up just like his grandpa (my dad) does. I am teaching him to do laundry and he loves to mop and cook too. You are a grown man. If you want your pants i-roned you know where the i-ron is.

Son: Maybe my life can i-ron my pants if she wants to.

Me: At least he knows his wife will be his life. Get out.

I believe he had his mother i-ron his pants for him before he left by the way.


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