Inspired by my daily writing challenge around “a funny incident.”

My mom didn’t iron.  And I have absolutely followed in her footsteps.  As children, we went shopping.  A lot.  In fact, it was likely my mom’s biggest hobby – happily taking a mini road trip the 45-60 minutes to get to a mall and browsing all day, hunting for deals and bonding with her daughters.  She taught us to perform the “wrinkle test” anytime we wanted a woven or linen fabric, as she wondered about the wash-ability.  She would breathe on a section of the fabric, wrinkle that up into a tight wad or ball, squeezing it inside her fist, and after maybe 10-15 seconds, she would release it.  If you could easily shake or brush out the wrinkles, it was a winner.  If not, this wasn’t a garment for our household.

That said, the one time of year that *sometimes* inspired ironing was Christmas.  We would all wear fancy clothes for the numerous school and church pageants, as well as the family Christmas Eve celebration.  This particular Christmas season, I was maybe 11, and my sister, Melanie, was around 8.  My mom had a can of spray starch that she was using to help keep some of the pieces extra crisp, likely inspired by our lovely satin, holiday dresses.  She would pop open the ironing board right in the middle of the kitchen and gut out whatever ironing was required.  The kitchen floor was linoleum and Melanie and I quickly realized that when the spray starch coated the linoleum it got super slick.  This was amplified if you slid across the sections of the floor in your stocking feet – almost like buffing the starch-coated floor.  We thought this was incredible.

Fast forward about a week.  We’ve all survived the craziest parts of the Christmas season: the performances and family visits and far too many gifts.  It’s nearing the end of our winter break, and my dad is back at work at the pharmacy, Mel and I enjoying the time off and opportunity to play with our new haul of gifts.  One thing we’d received that Christmas was two wooden hockey sticks and a couple of pucks.  We lived in a small town in Wisconsin and there was a skating rink not far from our house.  My parents were always very encouraging of girls playing any and all sports and seemed to be nudging us to try out some pick-up hockey this winter.  But the winter days in Wisconsin can be brutally cold and windy, and Mel and I just weren’t in the mood to gear-up and trudge the 5 or so blocks to the rink.

My mom left to run to the grocery store, leaving us alone for maybe 30 minutes.  I wandered aimlessly around the house, not mustering the energy to go outside in the winter elements but feeling acutely ambiguous about what else to do.  I was bored.  Even with the massive haul of holiday gifts and a clear playmate in my sister, I couldn’t come up with anything I wanted to do… And then I noticed that can of spray starch still sitting on the counter in the kitchen.

Suddenly, I had the most amazing idea – we would turn the entire kitchen, dining room and hallway into an indoor skating rink and play hockey in the house.  I recruited Mel to assist with my plan, and grabbed the can of starch.  We moved some of the chairs and stools out of the way and sprayed the entire can, covering all of the linoleum on our main floor with starch.  Then we found our fluffiest socks and zoomed across to make it as smooth and slippery as possible.  By the time my mom returned, we were just getting into the good part – facing off against each other in the middle of the kitchen, sticks flying and giggling like banshees. 

My mom entered the kitchen, loaded down with bags of groceries, and we got “the look.”  This was not on the approved list of indoor activities.

“What are you girls doing?  If you want to play hockey, you need to go outside.”

Then she took another step and almost flew into the air, luckily catching herself and avoiding a massive fall.  We realized we had bigger problems ahead.  Before long, my mom (and my dad, who she had called at the pharmacy) understood the extent of our fun plan.

I’m pretty sure Mel and I got sent to our rooms, as my mom clung to the edges of the counter, trying to avoid a spill and calling around to my grandma or other “mom” friends, to seek out solutions for how to clean spray starch off the floor.

I can remember scrubbing the entirety of the first floor linoleum on my hands and knees, but it wasn’t all that effective.  For at least a week, anytime you walked through the kitchen, it was sort of like taking your life in your hands. 

Later that evening, I lay in bed.  The house was silent, and I had almost drifted off to sleep when I heard someone downstairs in the kitchen.  My dad – always a fan of a sweet treat right before bed, headed to snag some of the remaining Christmas cookies and milk.  He caught a bad step and slid out, shouting some choice words, but luckily not getting seriously hurt.  I held my breath, part of me was giggling inside, and part of me was terrified of being responsible for a more serious injury. 

I like to think my parents saw the creative problem-solving skills that Mel and I demonstrated with this little stunt.  In the end, we survived – the floor recovered and nobody got (seriously) hurt.

And now, as a parent to 4, I am subjected to many “creative” choices on what and how my own children play.  I respect non-traditional ideas for making up games or obstacle courses or potions.  And on many occasions, those non-traditional ideas end up going a bit too far… and someone gets hurt or something gets broken.  I will get annoyed or angry – but I never stop the kids in advance of the looming catastrophe.  I like to think of it as creative problem-solving… collaboratively fighting boredom.  And a bit of payback for the mayhem I caused my own family when I was a kid.