Woman’s Work

My husband put the dishes away this morning. He stood arms crossed, grin across his face and waited for applause. It wasn’t going to happen. “I put the dishes away for you,” he said. “For me?” (Oh, no he didn’t.) “Thank you sir for helping me do my chores,” I replied with a deep southern drawl. He didn’t dare say another word. Besides, all he did was move cups, bowls and pans from the dishwasher to the counter:

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I grew up in a house where my mother did most of the cleaning, but she wasn’t Edith Bunker. My father did the majority of the cooking, grocery shopping and laundry. I will be damned if my daughter is raised believing this is woman’s work. My boys already know the deal. They say “Thank You” after a meal, when I iron their clothes and clean. I’m not Sandra Lee, but they respect how hard I work. It is work. I am doing my best to make sure they don’t expect anything or take someone for granted. Someday their wives will appreciate the kind of men I’ve raised. I hope.

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