It took me a long time to finally let go. I've been clinging for months to the idea that it might get better. But today, I finally had to face up to the truth.
My dishwasher is dead.
Even my usual process of spinning around three times, saying the proper incantation, propping up the open door with my shin while gingerly loading the glasses in the broken top rack, praying it won't all fall to pieces has stopped working. It is officially twice as much work to load the dishes as to just wash them by hand. I surrender.
I LOVE my dishwasher. I put everything in it: light fixtures, plastic toys, storage bins. If it fits in there and needs washed, in it goes. But now, sigh, my dishwasher is dead.
So I climbed up on the counter and peeled my dish drainer off of the top of the cabinets, hosed it down (literally), and hand washed this morning's dishes. I'm seriously going to have to institute a one glass rule--every one gets one glass per day, and that's it. I swear it seems like Erik and Soph are in a contest to see who can have the most drinks from the most glasses.
I HATE doing the dishes. As far as household chores, it's the one I hate the most. Well, I really hate scrubbing the bath tub--but that's not an every day thing. In fact, it's embarrassing to tell you how often I do clean the bath tub, so I won't. Sweeping I hate, but mostly because I have to move all the rugs and can never find the dust pan. Vacuuming hurts my back so I can pawn that one off on Erik pretty easily. Laundry isn't TOO bad. I just hate lugging it up and down the stairs. Folding laundry is a nice excuse to watch trash TV without guilt. But dishes. Fuck dude. No TV. Smelly. My shirt gets wet. Soph always gets in some kind of trouble. Dishes also have such a time table. Skip for a day or two, and you're completely fucked.
My mom and dad made us start doing dishes at age 8. By the time all 3 "big" kids (sorry Katy) were 8, we had the dishes broken into 3 jobs. Clearing, rinsing, and loading. Clearing was the job we all wanted, and we were supposed to rotate, but somehow, my little brother Jon always ended up with that sweet job. He'd clear the table, one fucking fork at a time, keeping Mandy and I waiting until we'd just go and do it for him. The clearer was also in charge of counter wiping, but as that little fucker is in possession of a wiener, he never did that either. (Sorry, but really, most men just don't wipe off the counters. I'm sure all you metrosexuals do, but really, you're the exception.) Rinsing was the worst job, as it involved actual scrubbing and water. Plus, I think my mom mostly looked at the dishwasher as a sterilizer, and she insisted that the dishes that were loaded into it were basically clean already. Loading was ok, but you always ended up being the last one out of the kitchen, so that kind of sucked.
So--now I'm dishwasherless. Pity me.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Having chocolate milk available to put in my coffee
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Whining. And whining. And whining some more.