"I'm washing the dishes after dinner," announces R.J., my nine-year-old son, out of nowhere.
My husband Ron's fork freezes midair.
"G-r-e-a-t," I say in a measured way, going for perfect phonetics rather than shocked stutter. After all, there is a first time for everything: first smile, first word, first step...first dishwashing experience?
R.J. tucks into his spaghetti and meatballs with unnerving gusto.
When I was dating, a married friend told me if a man offers to help with chores, you always say, "Yes, please" and never correct them, even if said male hot-washes your best white shirt with a load of colors. Just put on the tie-dyed number, flip up the collar and give thanks. My boy is a little man. I want him to grow to be a big man who takes his share of housework and lets his cuffs get dirty. I do not have soiled laundry tonight but I do have greasy dishes.
One of R.J.'s favorite stories growing up was Beatrix Potter's The Tale of Mrs. Tittlemouse about a mouse who did an awful lot of cleaning. Having said this, R.J. is not terribly tidy, but he is the only kid I know who asked Santa for a 3-foot folding plastic sign with CAUTION Wet Floor Cuidado Piso Mojado imprinted on it. What I did not anticipate was that he would be vigorously dumping hot water onto the tiled floor while doing the dishes in order to use it.
I stay out of the kitchen. The flailing stick figure in the red triangle will not be me. Let it be a father-son thing. I step away from the loaded sponge and retreat from the soapy trenches without saying a word.
Boys and men need to do more housework. Despite the sexual revolution, the traditional division of labor-at-home remains firmly entrenched in our society. Even the full-time working mothers I know, who do not work part-time from home as I do, end up carrying the brunt of chores or the brunt of organizing someone else -- a nanny, a cleaner, an au pair -- to do them. I cannot explain this, but I can help form my son. Women should not be the sole guardians and lone enforcers of domestic chores!
Washing up seems like a good place to start. First, because of R.J.'s childlike enthusiasm, second, because it is relatively risk free -- generic IKEA plates are a lot cheaper to replace than French poplin shirts -- and third, because his dad is an excellent role model.
Ron, one of three siblings, grew up in America doing chores. I grew up in Iran, also the eldest of three, with household help. I had not dipped a finger in dirty dishwater, let alone scrubbed an encrusted pot, until after the 1979 Islamic Revolution. My husband happily helps with chores as needed. Because he is the primary breadwinner in our family, I tend to do more during the week, but he picks up the slack on the weekends -- or if am not in the mood.
Tonight, Ron instructs R.J. on the necessary elements of dish duty. Privately, he claims I do not always do a thorough washing up job. I just did not start early enough, I suspect. But our son learns to scrape, soak, soap, scrub, and rinse, then dry with a dishtowel.
After that, R.J. is Kitchen Alone.
On my final peek-in, I decide Martha Stewart would die. Real Simple would balk at the wet clumps of paper towel, the wedding-cake-gone-awry piles of dishes, not to mention the sopping dishtowels dangling from cabinets like dismal Christmas tree decorations. Consumer Reports would correctly state that the spray nozzle attachment on the sink was not designed with children in mind.
I tiptoe away as the sink overflows with suds, my heart with pride.
"I'm done," shouts R.J. a little later, peeling off my soaked inside-and-out rubber gloves.
"Thanks," I say back at my threshold perch, "How about I run you a bath--or have you already had one?"
"Mom," he says, laughing.
After R.J. is safely in the tub, I quickly load the dishwasher with still-slimy dishes; put up the clean ones; swipe the floor a fraction drier with the one sorry-but-determined remaining flap of paper towel, the kind that shreds on the brown paper roll. Oops, a lump of squished meat sticks to my shoe. But all I can think is my son washed up.
Someday, I know his girlfriend or wife will thank me.