S found me in the guest room (aka my laundry room when visitors are not here) this morning after breakfast. I was switching a load (that sounds crass somehow...? chalk it up to the boys locker room I call a house), when he stumbled across this scene:
He squealed in delight, "Huh--Aweessome! Mom--it's the hotel thing. We have the thing from the hotel at our house. Cool!"
Yes dear, we too have "the thing." It is called an ironing board. And I'm sorry. Maybe you can ask your dad how it works.