When you walk into our kitchen, you will notice that we love to live on the wild side of domestic appliances.
I am not sure how old our microwave is, but it’s definitely antique. Every time that I stand in front of it, I need to use a frying pan as a cancer shield.
We have a Winnie The Pooh toaster that burns character faces in the toast and plays the show’s theme song.
“Winnie The Pooh. Winnie The Pooh. I will turn into a serial killer if you use that damn toaster before the sun rises. Winnie The Pooh. Winnie The Pooh. My mother in law is so thoughtful and I can’t wait for the matching coffee pot and oven mitts because our kitchen won’t be complete without it. Oh Winnie The Pooh…”
Or something like that.
Then there is the dishwasher. Some say it is too beautiful to wash the dishes.
We call her Kimberly.
You got that right.
I hate to love washing dishes. Don’t worry, this post is not going to be a giant diatribe of dried up hands and food floaties.
It’s a pretty boring chore unless you play “how many dishes can I fit on the drying rack?” It’s the adult version “Tetris“.
The game never ends well. Dishes have perished and toenails have been disfigured when the pile collapses. It’s a very dangerous game.
My husband never offers to help. He says it’s because of paper cuts on his hands and having to watch replays of the football game that he already watched the night before. You know, in case he missed seeing the quarter back’s penis flopping around in slow motion. Why in the world don’t they wear cups?
My son on the other hand, likes to help from time to time. He usually scoops up the excess soap suds and then fashions them into a beard for the dog. We thought it was funny until the dog became addicted to the suds and went straight to the hard stuff; entire bars of unattended soap in the bath tub.
When I’m in front of the sink, standing in the yogurt that had “spontaneously” exploded in his lunch pail, I am still. I can’t be the house gypsy traveling from one room to the next while simultaneously making doctors appointments on the phone, extracting 14 razor sharp Legos from my feet, and waging war against wrinkled clothes.Because of that, I have the perfect opportunity to immerse myself in conversation with my son. There is something magical when you hear your little person fill the kitchen with fascinating tales about life as a 5 year old.
Chunky: Mom “Oreen” says I’m her boyfriend but I said “no I’m not” and she said “yes you are” and I said that I was Kaitlyn’s boyfriend but we are not getting married because that makes me puke and I’m just a kid and I’m going to live with my mom forever.
Chunky: Mom, I’m Monique.
Me: Well hello Monique.
Chunky: No, I’m Monique.
Me: Well what’s my name going to be?
Chunky: Mom. Listen. I’m Monique.
Me: So is this the part where I fashion you a name tag or something? I’m out of glitter so go ask your Dad if you can use the metal shavings and the caulking in the garage.
Chunky: Mom. Listen. I’m Monique. You’re Monique. Everyone is Monique. You wear boobs. I build Legos. My eyes are brown but Dad’s are blue. Why are his eyes blue?
Me: The mailman’s eyes are blue.
Chunky: I was trying to tell you that. You need to go to school.
I wish that I could end this post with a “Full House” moment when Bob Saget teaches you a life lesson, but there really isn’t.
In case you wanted that sort of ending, I did create a bullet point list of things that this post may have taught you:
- Don’t ever mention to your mother in law that you ”used” to like something when you were a kid. She will mistake that as a hint to buy you all the things related to that thing, like toasters and license plate covers.
- No matter how old Labrador Retrievers get, they are still stupid.
- We are demolishing our kitchen when the Detroit Tigers end their season and he gives up on the Detroit Lions
Mostly, this is a reminder that our children are more than just background noise. We need to stop, listen and savor these tender moments.
After all, they are Monique.