RIP Dishwasher

Oh dishwasher.

You've been a daily part of our lives since we moved into this house almost 10 years ago. The real estate agent said, "Look! The house has a dishwasher!" and I ran my hands lovingly over you, knowing that I was soon to leave my dishwasher-less home just to be closer to you.

The truth was, I never treated you the way you deserved. I stuffed you full of sticky plates and nasty glasses.

I didn't rinse properly.

I slammed your door shut with my foot. I even flippantly called you "the maid." I'd tell my guests, "Oh, don't bother with the dishes. The maid will do them." Then I'd throw my head back and laugh and we'd all go sit down and have another round of dessert.

You've been sick for a while. Sometimes I had to jab your buttons more than once to get you to start. You'd cough and groan, and slowly start up. Instead of caring for you, I got impatient. I'd open your jaws wide, stuff more crusty dishes in, then slam you shut. I pushed your buttons. I'd poke and prod you. 

But the reality is setting in, now that you're gone.

It hurts me when I think of the pink crayon episode. Pink wax, melted and spattered unceremoniously all over your insides. I'm so sorry. I'd blame it on my toddler, but the truth was, I wasn't paying attention.

What a cutie! But were we considering your feelings?

I'd say, "Look honey! The baby is sitting on the dishwasher! He's helping me load the dishes! Isn't that cute?" Then I'd run and get my camera. I never thought about how the diaper-heavy child might be breaking your back, pushing you to your limits.

And now you're gone. Last week, when I knew the end was near, I kneeled down next to you. I had just had a dinner party, and I pleaded with you.

Please. Just work for me one last time. I need this. You don't realize how much I hate doing dishes.

And you did. Even in your hour of need, you selflessly gave me your final round of clean dishes, sputtering out steam one last time before you took your final rest.

There's nothing that can be done for you now. Soon, you'll be out at the curb and to be honest, we probably won't even gather to bid you goodbye as you travel to the pearly gates of the landfill. You will be heaved into the back of a smelly truck, and we will forget you. We will move on, and begin torturing our new dishwasher.

You didn't deserve this. You really didn't.

Guess What Guess What Guess What?

Motherhood is a business of multiples. Sure, it can be about multiple children, but even if you have just one kid, you are still dealing with multiples. If my kid spills something, it's not just a drop of milk, it's the whole gallon of milk. Or, "oops, I accidentally poured all the marshmallows into my hot chocolate."

And don't get me started on the multiples of Legos. The ones I always seem to step on when I go into my kids' rooms. To put away their laundry.

Laundry. Ugh—multiples of multiples.

Being a truly distracted Mommy means that sometimes my head isn't where it needs to be, so that when I'm on the phone with the doctor, or when I'm working my brain to its capacity to balance the checkbook, this is typically when my kids have something important to say. But first, they have to get my attention.

"Mom."

"Mom"

"Mommy."

"MomMomMomMomMomMomMom."

If I'm having a good day, I'll find a break in what I'm doing, look up at them lovingly and say, "Yes darling. What is it?"

But more often than not, I'll run my hands through my hair exasperated, and answer, "What?! WhatWhatWhatWhatWhatWhatWhat???"

I know I shouldn't do it. But you tell me who—other than some sainted woman from Calcutta or some Disney Princess—who wouldn't let their calm exterior get chipped away by the jackhammer-like persistence of little children who need to show you, right now,  that their brother is wearing the wrong shirt, or that it's the wrong episode of Dora the Explorer, or that, excuse me, I wanted a red apple and not a green one?

Except for the days that the insistent "MomMomMomMomMomMom" is so a sweet little someone can say, "I love you!" or, "Look at what I made you!" and that's exactly why I try so hard—so hard—not to snap and be sarcastic.

But not today. No, today was one of those sarcastic days, and my daughter got me good.

"Mom."

"Mom."

"MomMomMomMomMomMom."

"Mom, guess what? Guesswhatguesswhatguesswhatguesswhat?"

I dropped my pencil and let out a sigh.

"Whaaaaaaat?" I moaned, immediately regretting my tone when I saw her sweet face, round cheeks and smile, with just a hint of mischief.

"Chickenbutt!" she said, and she ran away, cackling.

Okay, I deserved that.