“You Really Must Iron Your Underwear—Because Unironed Ones Can Chafe,” Stresses the Mother-in-Law

Im a stay-at-home mum on maternity leave, blessed with two lovely children. My older one just turned five, and the youngest is fresh out of the delivery room.

Let me share a rather peculiar episode from my life.

It all started with a list my mother-in-law handed me right after I tied the knot with her darling son. The list was longer than the queue at Greggs during lunch hour and included gems like Nigel’s allergic to shellfish (which, to be fair, is good to know). But among the pearls of wisdom was a rather unexpected directive: I absolutely must iron his underwear, otherwise, apparently, hell end up with bruises in unmentionable places.

Naturally, I thought, Well, thats a mothers love for you. After all, it’s nice when mums dote on their sons, I suppose. I tried to follow all of her suggestions, and none were particularly troublesome, except the underwear-ironing business, which blindsided me. Growing up, neither my mother nor I ever considered steam-pressing knickers.

When our eldest was born, we started off with nappies as most parents do, but once we upgraded him to proper pants, it seemed only naturalgiven the listto extend the same royal treatment to his undies. So now, instead of just one mountain of ironing, I had twoit was becoming the Lake District in the laundry room. Still, I pressed on (pun unintended), remembering dear mother-in-laws conviction that only a hot iron and a faceful of steam could vanquish bacteria. She believes our son is the picture of health purely because all his pants are crisp and freshly ironed.

But the plot thickens with baby number two. Juggling two children, especially with a newborn in tow, means that doing everything on time has become a distant fantasy. Im sure mums with two little onesone of whom is still issuing orders in loud wailswill sympathise. I try to keep up with what truly matters, but honestly, my ever-growing mountain of maybe tomorrow laundry is reaching Ben Nevis proportions.

Yesterday, my husband, David, announcedrather dramatically, as husbands dothat he was out of pants in the drawer, with a meaningful glance that screamed, Wheres the clean, ironed underwear, darling? I was utterly exhausted, so I replied that he might have to make do with the non-ironed ones for a change.

He promptly rang his mother as I was getting ready for bed and moaned that his wife simply didnt have the time. He seemed quite wounded by it all. And the root of this entire family saga? Some wrinkled underpants.

Do any of you iron your childrens underwear? Honestly, when is one meant to stop? And more importantly, is there some secret hack to make ironing any faster, or am I doomed to an eternal game of Laundry Jenga?