Dish Mania

You've heard the expression about too many cooks I assume. But have you heard the one about too many dishwashers? If your answer is no then you haven't been to my house lately.

Back Story: My house is well over 100 years old with beautiful ancient woodwork and lots of space (well, if you don't fill the space up with a husband, 3 children, 2 cats, a dog, a beta fish, and the occasional outdoor bug-box-dweller anyway). It's a bit outdated in places which isn't at all bothersome in general, the most notable exception being the kitchen. The two modern conveniences our kitchen most lacks are: 1) a dishwasher and 2) sufficient currency in the spare change jar with which to purchase one. (Also, unless I were willing to knock out some cabinets, to which I am not overly attached though demolition is not really my thing, it also lacks an acceptable installation site.

At any rate, assuming that my Cereal Mom income remains stable (i.e. at the official USD exchange rate of next to nothing or less), then my calculations show that I can expect to achieve my by then much needed kitchen remodel with built-in dishwasher in just under 3.5 million years. Oops, guess the great great great great great times infinity grandchildren will have to foot the bill for this one. Sorry about that kiddos.

Since I am more than a bit of a work widow and thus scarcely ever enjoy the luxury of another adult to help with the dishes, the kids and I have settled into what you could call a comfortable routine:

Step 1: Mom quietly secures 6-month-old baby into handy front pack carrier.

Step 2: Mom gets sponge nice and warm and sudsy. Dishwashing commences. Mom attempts to remove all debris from dishes while simultaneously guarding against a) crushing baby by leaning too hard against the countertop or b) Knocking baby unconscious by swinging heavy plates, pots, and pans within dangerous proximity to baby's tiny, soft skull.

Step 3: Despite the fact that baby is strategically positioned in the carrier facing Mom, some instinct of child-destructiveness informs baby of the precise location of barely reachable objects which she then uses her entire miniscule body weight to swing the carrier in the direction of. This awkward swinging motion causes Mom to unwittingly slop water all over the cabinets, the floor, and the surrounding countertops in a somewhat vain attempt to retain control of the temporarily sterile object.

Step 4: Baby, exhausted from the strain of many fruitless attempts to procure stoneware and cutlery, falls asleep. This is only somewhat of a relief to Mom who is now unfortunately faced with a whole new obstacle: baby has gone limp. (Limp being a highly technical term used to describe the appearance of a baby who has recently completed the process of closing her eyes and instantaneously doubling her weight.)

Step 5: With impeccable timing, baby's 3-year-old brother wanders into the kitchen in search of sustenance after a treacherous living room wrestling match involving multiple varieties of pillows, a two-year-old sister, a plastic dinosaur, and possibly a small dog. Upon noticing that he is being excluded from the dishwashing action, he immediately pulls the nearest chair to the sink, digs around until he uncovers a suitable child-size plastic cup, and commences one or all of the following activities: placing the not-yet-clean cup under the faucet stream directly above the already-clean object that Mom is attempting to rinse, changing the flow of the water so that it will look more like a fountain (which is essentially useless to the dish-rinsing process although endlessly entertaining to a preschooler), continually filling the cup with water and then holding the cup as high in the air as possible allowing the water to spill out of the cup and into an already full waiting bowl, thus causing a tremendous splatter of bacteria-infused sink water all over the counters, backsplash, baby, and floor.

Step 6: Aforementioned 2-year-old sister, having presumably recovered from a brief wrestling-match-induced stupor, wanders aimlessly into the kitchen and is of course magnetically drawn to the sink. Her attempts to wedge a rather sizable kitchen chair into the pea-sized gap between Mom and Brother are repeatedly thwarted by shoves, screams, and newly-awakened-baby kicks to the head. Undaunted, she laboriously heaves the chair into place on Mom's as-yet-unoccupied side and begins leaning over... well let's just say basically laying on the counter, propped up only by Mom's formerly dish-scrubbing, but now essentially immobile shoulder and the thankfully nearly full dish drainer.

Step 7: While baby entertains herself by grabbing fistfuls of now-easily-accessible toddler hair, preschooler continues to douse everyone and everything in the immediate vicinity, toddler steps down from the chair momentarily returning naked due to a drop of water having touched her clothing, and Mom breathes a tentative sigh of relief having noticed a bare spot in between the many remaining dirty dishes where a glimpse of metal sink is finally visible.

Step 8: Preschooler notices naked toddler, suddenly becomes aware that his shirt sleeves have become damp, tosses all unnecessary garments to the floor (for him the term unnecessary refers to all objects of clothing other than underwear), then breaks into hysterical tears upon realizing that Mom has usurped his precious plastic cup under the unlikely pretense of it “just being time to wash it”.

Step 9: Mom turns off the faucet, herds the nudist children in the direction of the table, hastily (and sloppily) reclothes them (still with baby in pouch) and all commence soiling the lunch dishes.

Step 10: Munch and repeat.

Note: I only said you could call it a comfortable routine.

Could You Be A Cereal Mom?

Assuming that the middle class has, in fact, shrunken into oblivion and is therefore for all intents and purposes non-existent there remain two classes of people. You know what they are, so I'll leave the class warfare conversation to trudge onward without me.

If all households in America can be lumped into two income ranges, then it stands to reason that only two classes of moms exist as well. I started thinking of what these classes might be called. Certainly not upper and lower class. That's not creative enough for us crafty mom-types. As a stay-at-home mom, pretty much everything I do from baby care to preschool snacks and crafts and beyond revolves around what I buy at the grocery store. Based upon this information, what follows are my proposed Mom Class Divisions:

Cereal Mom: At our house there have been more weeks than I care to think about where we've lived on little to no meat, boxed 'flake' potatoes, and some frozen corn that my husband's aunt and uncle grew in their garden last year. The main beverages we consume at our house are milk and water and while we're waiting for payday, most often when the milk is gone, the milk is gone. One thing we are never without, however, is cereal. I realize that cereal is not the cheapest item on the supermarket shelves, but just as there are (or were) subdivisions in the middle class (upper, lower, was there one in between? The middle middle class?) so too are there various levels of Cereal Momdom. I personally am what I'd call a Malt-O-Meal Mom. I purchase the ginormous 39 oz. bag (that's well over 2 lbs. for those mathematically challenged moms such as myself). I try to select a reasonably healthy, low calorie variety and then let those kids go to town. They eat cereal for snack, breakfast, and sometimes other meals as well. Does this happen on a regular basis? Of course not, but you know how the old saying goes: A Cereal Mom is always prepared... to feed her family cereal.

Caviar Mom: Obviously to be considered a Caviar Mom one need not buy caviar exclusively or even often or even ever. Just as there are various levels of Cereal Momdom, so too are there many levels of this class status. In my humble opinion, which matters because I'm the only one doing the writing (and most likely the reading) here, the lowest level of Caviar Mom is simply the ability to make a grocery list, go to the store, buy everything that is on that list, come home, and pull up your bank account online without wincing and/or scrambling for the nearest calculator. In other words, if you're familiar with the choice between paying the bills and eating, then you are not a Caviar Mom.

One day... I aspire to become a Special K Mom (that's a couple of rungs above Malt-O-Meal Mom on the cereal hierarchy, just above Generic Store Brand Cereal Mom). I know it's a stretch, but hey, let a mom have her dreams...