Last year our dishwasher died. It was a very long, drawn out and dramatic death, likely brought on by lack of love and attention (we failed to notice that it was leaking, and in dishwasher-land, apparently that’s a bad thing). When my husband and I finally realized what was happening, we had no choice but to drop everything and spend the day frantically shopping for a new one (if you have kids, shopping for a dishwasher counts as “date night”, so we made sure to wear our fancy clothes).
We took our time, strolling hand in hand through one store after another (most of which, to be honest, didn’t even sell dishwashers). We were starved for some proper adult time, and it would seem that this was quickly becoming our version of a night on the town. Seven stores and several cups of coffee later, we finally found the dishwasher of our dreams. I think I may have even whispered, “It’s just so dreamy!!!” My husband and I haggled over the price, using our best haggling voices and wiggling eyebrows, but that got us absolutely nowhere, so we gave up and bought the dishwasher anyway. Not one of our proudest moments, but remember, we were in our fancy clothes, so at least we looked fabulous while trying.
The new dishwasher was delivered a few days later. The kids and I gathered excitedly in the kitchen, waiting for something magical to happen. We giggled and fell over each other, clambering for the best spot. It was around the time when the installation guy began to unhook all the wires under the old dishwasher that my oldest son turned to me and whispered, “I’d like to give that guy a quick hug….before disappears into the dishwasher forever.” Startled, my thoughts scattered and tripped over one another, searching desperately for some sliver of parenting advice on how to proceed. Was I supposed to address the super obvious “We Don’t Hug Strangers” aspect of the situation? But what about the “That’s the Freakiest Fucking Thing my Kid has Ever Said to Me” side of things? It was confusing, but I finally decided that, “Let’s settle for a high five, and wish him luck, okay?” was the appropriate compromise.
In the end, the installation guy survived, my son got his high five, and I got my dreamy new dishwasher. Life has quieted down since then, but I find myself eyeing the oven every now and then. It hasn’t been pulling its weight lately, and I could really use another excuse to put on my fancy clothes.