The Dishes

I did it. Tonight I washed the dishes.

Somehow, the stars aligned. We actually ate dinner together as a family for the first time in over a week.

The boys' playing to fighting ratio was in my favor, Dear Husband got home a half hour earlier than usual, and I had burrito fixings on hand. We all ate the same food at the same table at the same time, and no one cried or fell asleep in their guacamole. (Both are wont to happen at dinner these days.)

When we finished, the boys dispersed throughout the house to close the windows against the storm blowing in. Finding myself boy-free for a moment, I began cleaning up. At first I thought I would just get our dinner dishes taken care of and maybe wipe off the table.

But then I washed a breakfast pan. And a spatula. And the water bottles that were left outside all night. And last week's wine glass. And on and on it went.

I stood at the sink with the window open. Dark clouds raced passed a twilight backdrop as lightening flashed in the sky. With the smell of rain and lilacs drifting in on the breeze, I listened to the thunder rumbling outside and the boys rumbling in the living room.

If I didn't know better, I'd say I was enjoying myself.

Several times I was tempted to call it a night, but it was a rare moment that all three boys were happily occupied with Dad. And so I carpe-ed myself some diem.

As I precariously balanced the last ladle on the towering stack of clean dishes, I smiled. Somehow, washing dishes didn't feel like such a chore tonight.

Putting them away, on the other hand, might prove to be a little tricky.

Jenga, anyone?