What we have

My mind was made up.

I had suddenly come to the realization that my relationship with our vintage 1980's dishwasher... it just wasn't working out. It was far too demanding. Finding myself in a position to have to practically wash dishes before and after whatever it did with them, was ridiculous.

I'd walked away before. But this time? This time I meant it. For real.

I even reclaimed the custard cup that spent the last six months upside down, supporting the sagging right corner of the bottom rack.

OVER. Totally.

And yet... here I sit, a week later, waiting. I'm waiting impatiently for that rattling and humming to stop so I can rinse my darn dishes off and go to bed. Again. Why do I keep going back?

The honest truth? I feel like whining and complaining about all the large appliances in this house.  I fought them all day long. Every single one.

Then our home sighs as the furnace moans and does it's job. The content little half-Siamese stretches out long in front of her favorite vent. Outside, it is cold. Very cold. We are warm. I am grateful.

In the midst of battle earlier, I screamed at my washing machine. (I was soundly defeated.) Even if I had to ring out soaked socks and underwear by hand, we do have clean clothes. When we moved here, we didn't know the previous owners would leave their washing machine, so we brought ours. It's a wonderful thing to have a spare washing machine. It screeched as my husband slid it across the concrete basement floor and into place. I am grateful.

The dishwasher is finally done with whatever it does, and sure enough, it was a good thing I stayed up to rinse those dishes off.  I turn on the faucet.  The water that comes out?  It's clean and hot. I expect this, but why? Clean water is really something, and hot water something even more. I am grateful.

Darkness out my window, the clock ticks, I tap at my keyboard, my children snore... I'm glad for having stayed up. Glad for the quiet.

When I stand up from this computer and push in my chair, I'll run my hand along the table. This is the table where my children gather to color, build dinosaurs out of play doh, eat, fight like siblings always do... the same table their grandfather sat at as a boy. Every scratch, every ding, every embedded piece of glitter, every creaky wobble of this table tells a story. I am grateful.

I'll tell myself that I'm not going to use that dishwasher again. Ever. I'll think I mean it, but I know better. It does kind of, sort of, clean my dishes.

And yes, I am grateful.