I was chatting on the telephone with my friend, and trying to load the dishwasher. I say trying, because I was stopping every 30 seconds to remove the 22 month old from the area. She loves to swipe silverware, and thinks it's hysterical to close the door as I'm trying to put things in. My conversation with my friend drifted to those rollicking childfree days where we didn't need dishwashers, since we were so hot and were treated to frequent meals out with handsome dates. Sigh.

Then we reminisced about our childhoods spent slaving over the dishes every evening, while our parents engaged in adult conversation and relaxation. (No, Mom, I don't think you were really relaxing. Now, anyway.)

THE INJUSTICE! My sister and I used to say that our parents had us for the sole purpose of washing their dishes every night. We complained bitterly, but you know, it was really one of our only chores, so boo-hoo little spoiled Jenny. We also used to sing at the top of our lungs while we washed, and not the blues, either. I still hum "Clementine" while I'm washing pans.

You know those "lightbulb moments" that Oprah is always talking about? Well, I had one. I thought, hey! I've got me some kids. And they love to play with water and soap. They can do the dishes! Bwahahahahahaha!

It hasn't worked out yet. I stand vigilant, and gently remind my kids that PRETTY PONIES AREN'T DISHES and SOAP STINGS EYES while I resist the urge to remove them bodily and just do it myself. My plans for indentured servitude and world domination are failing.

Holy moly! Another lightbulb moment! Maybe just having the kids stand near the sink will be enough motivation to make me WANT to do the dishes.

Have I talked about my kids and butter yet? They are all like Homer Simpson. Mmmm. Butter. Seriously. I frequently find sticks of butter with a huge bite out of them. If I am using butter in a recipe, they sit at my side and beg for a pat. Which I do not give them, because it's BUTTER. Not a stand-alone snack.

Nevertheless, they find ways to get their fix. This morning, I buttered some toast for the baby, and was chatting with my mom on the phone. I watched her slurp the melted butter off the surface of the bread, and then tear the bread into pieces and scatter them on the floor. (Yes, I could have stopped it, but it was buying me a few moments of conversation.)

I shared this snapshot of my morning with my mother, who said "Well, just call Donna in. She'll eat it." Nope. My dog will not eat toast. She will not eat 99% of dog food. She does, however like her some chow mein and lemon chicken. She also loves pizza and fried chicken. Even my DOG prefers take-out. I think there's a lightbulb moment in there somewhere.