I had a revelation a few days ago: It was induced, as so many revelations are, by a pile of dirty dishes. They sat in the sink after dinner, exuding the silent but intimidating “You must do us now” vibe that all dirty dishes emit.
Generally, I obey this silent command–or sometimes Paul will, if he’s feeling especially chivalrous. That night, though, every fiber of my being was opposed to the idea of doing dishes.
That’s when the revelation struck: I have a son! And he’s tall enough to reach the sink! And most of the dishes are made of some surprisingly unbreakable substance! SAGE can do the dishes!
The thought was not unprecedented; it had occurred to me the previous weekend, when after lunch at a dear friend’s house, her three sons attacked the clean-up with minimal grumbling: They were accustomed to the routine and had accepted their fate. The thought crossed my mind that Sage, too, was capable of such a feat (whether he was willing to admit it or not).
I decided to put the thought to the test. I announced that Sage would be doing the dishes and, unlike his general pattern of default whining when asked to perform such a task, he went to the sink and began rinsing with nary a protest. He even refused my advice on the best way to do dishes, saying he already had a “system.” He even SANG!
I don’t know who this changeling was or what happened to my original child, but I enjoyed the novelty of having a dishwasher that sings Christmas carols and White Stripes songs. I don’t know how long the novelty will last for HIM, but I intend to take full advantage of it while it lasts.
Now I’m going to go dirty a dish, just because I can.