Tag Archives: family

Dear Parents Who Refuse to Teach Their Boys How to Cook and Clean

Dear Parents Who Refuse to Teach Their Boys How to Cook and Clean,

I realize that you are working under the completely false security that your son will be mothered and nurtured at college somehow and then married off to the next Martha Stewart (minus the jail time).  But, in reality, you’re just setting your son, and possibly his future wife up for failure.

Let me first make clear the fact that I hold to a traditional view of family.  If I ever get married, I plan to stay at home with my children, nurture and teach them, and keep the house from being a pit of filthy despair by cleaning and such.  I don’t think that roles should be reversed in a family, and I do believe that both the husband and wife roles in a marriage are unique to them for a reason.

However, your sons still need to know how to operate at a basic human level of cleanliness and health.

Why? Well, because, first and foremost, there will likely be time between the day he leaves your house and the day he gets married; also, because his wife may not have been taught very well and may need some help; because his wife could get mono or be put on bed-rest or break all of her limbs in a freak accident involving a marmoset and a bulldozer and might be unable to vacuum or cook dinner for awhile.

But, also because we truly don’t know the future.  Many of us assume that marriage is a default setting, but not everyone gets married.  And not everyone gets married young.  Your son could get married for the first time when he’d sixty.  He could be single all his life.  He needs to be able to keep the filth in his house at bay and cook a week’s worth of meals for himself.

Do you really want your son eating off the McDonald’s dollar menu for forty years? Do you?!

In addition to being able to operate at a normal, functional, clean and healthy level, there is an added bonus to this.  You know those poor, misguided girls who like to mother their boyfriends/fiances/husbands?  They mainly do it because the boys in their lives haven’t been taught how to fend for themselves.  Seriously.  As females, we like to nurture, and when we see a boy at college who hasn’t eaten a proper meal in months and isn’t sure where the button to operate the Swiffer WetJet is, we think, “Oh, you poor thing.  Let me make you spaghetti and brownies and clean that for you.”

Yeah, I don’t know why we do this, but it happens.  And then the natural inclination is to treat the boy in question like a child in many ways.

So, those girls…the ones who have to mother their husbands…they are annoying, right?  They would make horrid daughters-in-law, yeah?  Well, you know how to make sure one of them doesn’t marry your son?

Make sure he can actually live on his own for a few weeks without resorting to eating chili fries for multiple meals in a day.  That way, she’ll have nothing to mother.

Sincerely,

Chelsea


Dear Easter Candy

Dear Easter Candy,

I am in the midst of a tumultuous love-hate relationship with you. I love your sweetness, your chocolate-covered goodness, your this-doesn’t-even-taste-that-good-but-it-reminds-me-of-my-childhood-and-I-can-only-get-it-during-the-Easter-season quality. I could speak for long minutes about my ability to eat an entire package of Whoppers Robin Eggs in three days (and I’m not referring to the puny milk cartons, either), about how Reese’s Eggs are ultimately better than any other Reese’s product found during any other time of the year, and about the fact that, though entirely disgusting, sometimes I just want a marshmallow-filled chocolate egg.

I love you quite a bit, Easter Candy. I don’t know if it’s because my mother always went to great lengths to ensure her children would go into diabetic comas come Easter evening by constructing elaborate baskets for us. It might be because my grandmother always, always, always bought large bags of SweeTarts Bunnies, Ducks and Chicks (which everyone knows are far superior to normal SweeTarts). It might even be because my various Sunday School teachers shoved altogether gross Easter candy at me on Resurrection Sunday (which really distracts from focusing on Christ, but that’s another issue entirely). I’m honestly not sure of the exact reason why I love you so much. When I ponder about this, all my brain is giving me is visions of my great-grandmother, really weird marshmallow candies and the aforementioned SweeTarts products, so I suppose I can chalk it up to nostalgia.

My love is clearly genetic. Just last night, my father told me that, “Your mother went into some sort of trance on the Easter aisle at Wal Mart and bought about twenty pounds of candy.” This indicates to me that I may never be entirely free from the affection I have for you, Easter Candy. Personally, I am unashamed in my love for you, and I don’t care how long it lasts.

However, despite the love I hold for you in my heart, there are two areas of my life that are not pleased with you and all of your sugary goodness: my waistline and my wallet. My waistline is not particularly appreciative of the fact that a peanut-butter-filled egg jumped into my hand as I walked through the grocery store last week. It is similarly dissatisfied with the ridiculous Easter Candy Feast I had about a month ago involving myself, three days, a Reese’s Egg, a bag of Cadbury Mini Eggs and a bag of Whoppers Robin Eggs. It has decided that you need to go.

My wallet is also throwing a fit. The fact that I cannot walk into any grocery store that sells you without donating at least a dollar to some sort of filled egg or rabbit is annoying my wallet quite a bit. And, I have to admit, it makes a good point.

It is for their sake, my waist and my wallet, that I feel we need to spend some time apart. I love you, as you know, but it isn’t entirely healthy for me to be around you all of the time. I must bid you a temporary adieu. It will be difficult, but it is necessary.

Thanks for all of the memories and lovely, sweet goodness.

Sincerely,
Chelsea

P. S. If all goes well, we can arrange a secret meeting. This Sunday. At the Easter basket my mother has no doubt thrown together for me. Be there.