Consequences

Perfection. Ironed, folded, and gently placed back into its spot. The flattening of creases, the steaming out of imperfections, all to adorn something as if it were new, as if its life was just beginning, and in the beginning of life, there is only innocence. There is no corruption, no effects from the sweat and moisture of others upon its skin. Like a child, like a new shirt, as it becomes worn and makes its own mess, we can try to place it back into its unsoiled state. Toys away. Stains removed. Less on the act of ironing but rather the act of composure. Respectable. However, there’s nothing respectable about a camel's toe.

Image curation. Image projection. Who am I trying to present as? Sex and responsibility. Young women dressing for men's attention. Mothers presenting their children to the neighbours. From keeping fit to keeping an orderly house. Pantiless to postnatal diapers. The full expression of the sex symbol is the mother. Pretending to hold it all together. That’s what happens, boys. And now what represents her? Her children. Her work -  her children. A mother reduced to an iron? What a slander of a representation. But that’s what we’ve been taught to do, no? Tear each other down as women? Only enough space for one. The mother tsks at the scantily clad girl she once was, and the girl grimaces at the unsexiness of wrangling children. It’s not about each other. It’s about tearing ourselves down. The categorisation of ourselves.

Fit in one bucket, and from within in that bucket, there is not enough of you to fit in any other. Pure, not sexy. Responsible, not carefree. Tethered, not spontaneous. Tamed, not wild. It’s the split I fear I cannot be. I want both. I want to have my babies, nestle my nose deep into their necks and breathe their innocence, devour their first days in this world, and watch them sleep in my arms.

And I want my youth, nestled right beside me. That’s what got us here. Being desirable, being the image a man wants to devour. There’s not enough room in the bed.

It’s not then and now. It could easily be ‘then and now’. It’s not as if I were a Frenchman's magazine model and now iron clothes. I don't iron clothes. I have a travel steamer, and in a pinch, I will use my hair straightener to iron out a dress. It is, however, a change in scenery. A change in weekends and time spent at the beach. There is no tanning time, there could be ironing time, at night whilst the babies sleep, but then there’d be no writing time. All trades, all the time.