This is a small post about an odd little thing that happened the other day while we were in a restaurant waiting for food to arrive.
As in lots of places, there were crayons and paper to keep the kids occupied. Our younger boy (who’s 6), said that he was going to draw me and Pappy, and got to work.
He was happy and busy for about 5 minutes (as a portraitist, he’s pretty quick), and then announced that he was finished.
‘This one’s you, Pappy.’ He pointed to the left hand figure. ‘You’re lifting weights. Look, there’s your big muscles. And that’s you, Mummy.’
‘I can tell’ I said (well, it was the only other figure on the page so it was a safe bet). ‘What’s that on my skirt, is it a pattern?’ There were some zigzags round the edge which I couldn’t quite make out. They looked a bit like shark teeth.
He giggled. ‘No Mummy, that’s your apron!’
* * *
I don’t own an apron. I doubt the boys have ever seen me in one. My husband, however, has more than one and wears them reasonably often, especially as he does most of the cooking (and is extremely good at it).
My husband doesn’t lift weights. There is a dumb-bell in the garage but I can’t remember the last time it got off the ground.
I’ve lost count of the number of times we’ve said to the boys that men can cook, women can be doctors, men can be nurses, women can run fast, men can wear pink…and from what they say, I think they do take some of it in.
And yet here I am in an apron, while my husband lifts weights.
Where did that come from? Most of the limited TV they watch is about dragons or ninjas, so I don’t think it’s that, and most of the books they read are Horrid Henry or Beast Quest. Not many aprons there.
I’m genuinely flummoxed.