I was thinking about my reasons for not liking automatic dishwashers. Was it because of the bending required to load and unload? How about the time that I helped treat a woman who impaled her thigh on a steak knife when she fell across a dishwasher door? Because she forgot it was open.
No, those things give me pause, but after some thought, I decided that it’s because I hate organizing disgusting things. Lining up dirty little dishes here, and dirty big dishes there, and the stinky glasses, and the silverware . . .ugh!
Give me a pair of rubber gloves and some hot soapy water, and I actually like doing dishes. Therapeutic.
I like it even better when someone dries and we can talk. Last week, I decided that Tommy was old enough to help dry the dishes. I handed a towel to him, and told him to take his time and place each cup or dish that he dried on the big table behind me. I planned to put them all away later.
I washed. We talked. He kept placing the dry ones on the table, and he’d come back for another bowl or drinking glass until he was finished. He was done first, and ran off to play while I rinsed out the sink and shined things up. I loved it.
I threw my gloves under the sink and turned to gather up the clean dishes on the table. My mouth dropped open. Tommy had gone into the bathroom next to the kitchen and filled everything he’d dried with water! Every cup and bowl covering the table held water.
I didn’t say anything to him, but I dumped the water and re-dried the dishes. He didn’t know about drying dishes, and was simply making a new job fun. For him. But let me tell you, the next time I enlist his little cuteness to help me dry dishes, he will know the plan!
Happy Thanksgiving, and be blessed, Nealie