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.