Barefoot in the kitchen

"Don't run around in your stocking feet!"

That was a constant criticism from my mother growing up. I hated wearing shoes. Particularly inside. 

Granted part of the reason for the command was due to my less than stellar cleanliness habits in regards to my room. Watching me cross the room barefoot would cause my father to cringe. When asked why he'd respond he wouldn't walk into my room without steel toed boots, let alone no shoes at all.

I don't know what all the fuss was about — a few sharp edged toys, a carpet coated in staples, and plethora of tacks, needles and sundry other pointy bits of mass destruction. What's the big deal?

Now that I've reached adulthood and home ownership, I am no longer bound by my footwear. I can wander wherever I like in just my socks or entirely barefoot. 

A couple weeks ago, I was baking up a storm when a package arrived from a dear friend. Opening it I found kitchen based treasures in honor of our new home. My husband started grinning — mischievously. 

When asked what he was thinking, he replied "looks like someone thinks you should be barefoot in the kitchen."

My instant reaction was mock indignation and to smack him for his wiseassery. He dodged and laughed saying "Hun, no, wait, look at your feet."

I paused and looked down. Barefoot. I looked over at the oven timer and my husband nodded at me. "We're still working on the pregnant part," he added, eyes twinkling.

Now my husband is about as far from a male chauvinist as a guy can get — he's a sweet hopeless romantic, who now and again likes to get a rise out of me just because he can. And I had unwittingly played into an archaic archetype.

Sometimes I think my husband wishes I'd wear shoes to protect myself from the collateral damage that is my catastrophic klutziness. But all I'm doing is playing with boiling water, knives, heavy objects and a gas stove — what's the worst that could happen?