I’m Not Domestic…I’m Kind of Feral

I have a confession. I’m not very domestic.

Okay, those of you who know me are laughing because you realize this isn’t a confession at all, but an obvious fact and the world’s worst kept secret.

To be fair, between my work schedule and trying to get this writing thing off the ground, it doesn’t leave much time for bringing out my inner June Cleaver. I’ve had to find workarounds and delegate things.

I started The Kid doing his own laundry as soon as I thought he was old enough to handle it. I started The Husband Dude doing his own when he left a ChapStick in his jeans pocket and it ruined a brand-new pair of my slacks.

The Dude hates doing laundry, though. He always puts it off and then on Sunday night he’s scrambling to get his work clothes clean for the week. Or he’ll be trying to wash underwear because he’s down to the pair that is so full of holes, it is unintentionally a thong.

I personally despise grocery shopping. It’s too people-y at the store. Sometimes pushing a grocery cart behind someone who is rude or being a dumbass will give me a bad case of road rage. I’ve probably dropped more F-bombs in Walfart than a late-night comedian on a Netflix special.

The Dude doesn’t seem to mind it. When he got laid off from his job and was playing the role of Stay at Home Dad, he used to talk about enjoying the grocery store.

So, I proposed a deal. I would do his laundry for him if he did the grocery shopping. He agreed.

For the most part, it has worked out great. I get a lot of texts during that hour or two he’s at the store. Lots of pictures and “which one?” That’s good. At least I can clarify.

Occasionally, though, I’ll put something like “mayonnaise” on the list, and this is what he comes home with.

Yes, that’s right. A fifty-five-gallon drum of mayonnaise.

Maybe that’s an exaggeration, but look at the jar compared to the nearly empty one in the refrigerator.

I mean, we don’t EAT that much mayonnaise. We occasionally use it on sandwiches, and I like it on hamburgers. Very rarely, I have a recipe that calls for it. A small jar would last us a very long time. What the hell am I supposed to do with this vat of mayonnaise that will not fit in the door of the refrigerator with the other condiments?

Anybody have a sudden craving for a tub of potato salad???

But you won’t hear me complain. I don’t have to shop. It saves time for things like taping the hems of The Kid’s pants.

Last week I was scrambling to get The Kid some dress pants he could wear to his Homecoming Dance. He already outgrew the brand-new suit we bought for his Spring Formal last year, so we made the cost-cutting decision to let him wear his Dad’s suit jacket and just get him a pair of slacks.

The dilemma: The Kid has short legs. With me standing at a whopping five-foot-three and The Husband Dude at a five-foot-seven and a half (The Dude insists that nobody forget the HALF), The Kid did not stand a chance in the genetic lottery of height.

Sorry, Bubba.

Anyway, it’s really hard to buy a pair of slacks that will fit around a growing boy’s waist (and by growing, I mean the kid who can eat a Double Quarter Pounder with cheese and bacon, fries, and a twenty-piece chicken nugget order) but whose height is entirely in his torso and not his legs. I bought the shortest inseam I could find for his waist size, and they were still about three inches too long.

And because in this family, we do everything at the last minute, I didn’t have time to get them tailored.

And of course, I don’t know how to sew, so hemming them myself is out.

Guess what? I’m NOT a Domestic Diva, but I AM an Online Shopping Queen. I got out my trusty laptop and guess what I found?

Tape. Tape for hems.

Maybe this has always been a thing and I’m just late to the party, but this product is THE BOMB! It’s made for women who want to temporarily adjust the hems on their slacks to accommodate both flats and heels. You literally just turn the pants leg inside out, adjust the fabric where you want it, and tape it!

I had The Kid put the slacks on with his shoes, then I started pinning the hem.

He looked dubious.

“Do you know how to do that?” he asked.

I laughed. He’s blunt like me. Leave it to him to point out my non-domestic skills.

“Yes, Bud. It’s the closest thing to sewing that I learned from Memaw.”

“Was she a seamstress?” he asked.

“Not for a living,” I answered. “But she could sew well. She made all my clothes when I was little.”

We were both quiet for a while as I continued pinning fabric.

“I miss her,” he finally said. “I wish she was still here.”

“Me too,” I said quietly. “Except she’d be fussing at me for not learning how to sew and then she’d be doing this the right way.”

We both laughed.

I used to feel bad about moments like this, where I WASN’T June Cleaver. When The Kid was little, I would feel guilty that I was the mom who made “homemade” cookies from pre-made dough at the store instead of actually mixing all the ingredients myself. I felt really bad mom-guilt when I couldn’t be at every school party or event during the day because of my job. I would look around at my messy house and worry that he would grow up remembering what a slob his parents were.

But in this quiet moment of taping the hem of The Kid’s slacks, I realized that’s not what he’ll remember, because those aren’t the things I remember about my Mom. She didn’t always make “homemade” cookies and she was a teacher, so she never could come to my parties or all my school events either.

I realized that The Kid would remember helping me put the pre-made dough on the cookie sheet and getting to set the timer. He would remember how I didn’t make it to every school party or event, but I was always there cheering him on at the Talent Show. He would remember we didn’t have a perfectly clean house, but it was because we were at the movies and we were spending time together as a family.

And he would remember the time I taped the hem of his slacks for Homecoming, and we laughed about my Mom being irritated at my lack of sewing skills.