My son waits for me to do it every night.
Load and start the dishwasher. He hands me plates to rinse. He helps me arrange the silverware in the little basket. He watches wide-eyed as I pour crystal cleanser into the plastic compartment. Then comes showtime: I twist, choose “Normal Wash,” and press. The noise surges. He beams in ecstasy.
We didn’t have a dishwasher in Manhattan.
The lease forbade it, along with washer/dryer. Probably the water bill. And my husband and I told each other we didn’t need those sorts of suburban comforts. We washed the dishes by hand in the sink. We lugged bags of dirty clothes to the laundromat.
I occasionally missed the conveniences I grew up with in Michigan. But we’re literary types living in Manhattan. Our children are exposed to culture. They play in Central Park. My daughter dances in Alvin Ailey’s Saturday class along with Annie Leibowitz’s little girl. My son plays Little League next to the Hudson River.
What crap.
My son needed a dishwasher all along, just as he needed his own bedroom and a desk and a second bathroom. We’d been living in such rotten conditions, like people in some Eastern European cramped concrete nightmare, because I was overwhelmed with a fulltime job and two kids. I couldn’t lift up my head and see what my family needed.
His delight with the diswasher and everything else about our Queens apartment fills me with shame that I didn’t do this years ago.
Time to rinse and load.
I’ve been taking my dishwasher for granted.
It’s cool to see you so thrilled with these little things.
But most of all it is important that you have made this move for the entire family’s benefit.
Great location, more room, great schools, more cash…But hey, how could you know it was going to be so good unless you tried it?