Autism & Ironing

A few months ago I made the radical decision to stop ironing.

This might not be earth-shattering news to most, but in my little world it lines up comfortably with my evolution.

It started with a beautiful moment of clarity.

Finian needed a shirt.  I opened his wardrobe and directed him to chose one from the perfectly pressed row.

His shirts had all been washed, dried and then fretted over for a week as they languished in the ironing basket.

They accused me every time I opened the hot press.

"You're so disorganised" they seemed to say.

"You can't manage your workload"

"You're not a good enough mother/housekeeper/divine smoother of creases"

Crinkly clothes are remarkably talkative.

Those fuckers stressed me.

Finian grabbed a shirt, dropped it, walked on it, put it on his bed, sat on it, pulled it over his head, and splashed hot chocolate down the front.  He then found a microscopic rip in the hem, which he worried at til the garment became less-shirt and more-hole.  

He took the shirt off and deposited it in the bin.

My 'special needs' kid has more wisdom in his little finger that I have acquired in over 50 years of conditioned lunacy.

Ironing is a pointless waste of  precious time.  Spending hours rubbing hot metal over cotton, to erase creases that no-one cares about, is entirely insane.  

I'd much rather read a book and drink tea.

It's OK to be less than perfect.  It's OK to cast off the rules and conditions imposed on us by others.  It's OK to fuck insane shit in the bin.

Ironing now reposes peacefully in the trash beside Finian's shirt.