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 It's a bit outdated in places which isn't at all bothersome in general, the most notable exception being the kitchen.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.
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