When Fella and I were
dating, we had a tacit agreement: the one who cooks, doesn’t do dishes. And I
hate washing dishes. Fast forward 10 years and, when I’m not cooking for
everyone, it seems that I am doing nothing but the G.D. dishes.
There are dishes before
breakfast. And then while the kids are eating lunch, I’m not because dishes.
While dinner is cooking—more dishes. And unless Fella can shepherd the flock
through the bedtime routine (while I do the dishes) they lay in wait. And if I’m
the one getting the kids ready for bed I’m lucky if the dinner plates get
loaded in the dishwasher.
I even have (and use!)
the revolutionary home appliance known as the automatic dishwasher, to very
little avail.
So what has happened to
that arrangement we had during our courtship? I don’t remember our vows including
one that voided all agreements (express or implied) entered into prior to saying
“I do.” (In which case, I might have more seriously considered the
alternative). But what I do remember is one party claiming that the dishes get
done faster when two people are doing them and one slippery slope later, here
we are.
And although just the
other day the Mayor volunteered to unload the flatware from the dishwasher (hallelujah!)
he’s still a few inches away from taking over the dish-doing entirely. So for
now, I guess I’ll have to pull up my big girl rubber gloves and keep scrubbing
(ad nauseam).
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