Last night at the dinner table I made a terrible mistake. We were all sitting there eating our bacon, avocado, and poached egg sandwiches. It was quiet, which is always the best compliment a cook can get. Little Man had chipotle mayonnaise running down his chin, the plate were catching the yolk drizzling out from the bread, Little Lady was happily shoving bits of avocado into her mouth. It was a good dinner. I was pleased. I looked up at Hubs, smiled and said, "I love being a Domestic Goddess." Why, of all the things in the world that could come out of my mouth, would I chose to say that? I couldn't have just smiled and taken another bite. Or said I'm so glad you all like dinner. Or something else. But, no, I had to say it.
And wouldn't you know it, the Universe just had to hold me to my word
and one of the more terrible things that has ever happened happened.
My dishwasher broke.
I'm going to give you all a minute to let that sink in. The horror of
it all. The dinner dishes. The pots. The cereal bowls. The baby
bottles. I have to wash them all.by.hand. Every.day. Gasp.
Between the laundry and ironing and dishes, I earned my title last
night. I saved the dishes for last. And I stood at that sink, trying
once again to figure out just what lesson I'm supposed to learn from
getting raisin fingers. I thanked God for the clean water and soap.
For the sponge. For the food. For the plates and silverware. For the
bottles with 18 million little pieces all needing scrubbing. For the
baby who drinks from them.
When I was done, I made a bowl of ice cream as my reward. I sat down on
the couch at midnight to enjoy my ice cream and all I could think was
that I now had another dish and spoon to wash. So not worth it.
Tonight I'll just go for whipped cream right from the can.