Iron Irony

Yesterday, I was putting away my 37,654th basket of laundry for the day when Beckett reminded me my 37,655th basket was still in the family room. He's helpful that way. I told him that was the ironing pile. Because he's so helpful, he said he wanted to iron for me. Except he doesn't say "iron," he says "i-ron." I have no idea why he says it this way. Dana and I pronounce it "i-yearn," but we say it fast, not like in a slow, longing, yearning way. Beckett pronounces it like it's written. Only, I'm pretty sure he's never seen the actual word. Oh, and, he can't read, anyway. So, why he says "i-ron" like some caveman declaring his name to be "Ron" totally baffles me.

Nevertheless, he still wanted to "i-ron." When I explained the potential burning hazards of ironing, he became concerned that our house was on fire, you know, with the burning and all. He's been a bit obsessed with our house catching on fire ever since he saw a house fire on the local news. This is concerning to say the least. We've now managed to make the kid scared of birthday candles and pressed clothing. I can just picture the therapy bills. I finally was able to convince him that our house would not burn down because I was ironing clothes. So, that solved the fire concern, but now the yearning for ironing has been resurrected. And, honestly, I'm not sure why the boy wants to iron so much. It's not like he's learning from example, because I iron maybe once a month, begrudgingly. Mainly, I just have a basket of clothes to-be-ironed that's taken on a life of it's own. But, for whatever reason, ironing is the wanted pasttime of the moment. I could start using this to my advantage. Maybe tomorrow he'll ask me if he can clean toilets!