The Thing About The Dishes

We're cleaning our house more aggressively than ever, or maybe I am. The Three Short Drunk People have yet to master toothpaste clearing of the sink, but The Kid, when he has time, is using the rake more often.

Me? Detailed cars. Washed windows. Disinfected the garage. Googled "squeegee" a bunch.
I have learned that shop towels are far superior to Bounty. And cheaper.
You need me to clean something? I'm your girl.

It's weird how anxiety shows up and how we deal with it.

But dishes? Typically, I cook and he cleans. That's what my parents did.
My mother in law cooked AND cleaned, and as much as I tried to help, she deflected me, kindly.
"I need to digest," she would say, while fending me off, her hands in soap and water and dishes.

A silver lining of quarantine is The Drunks have learned to cook for themselves.
Tonight, there was no cooking by me here: I was too tired, and me and their dad we're camped out on the porch reveling in our mutual aches and pains and the good work we'd done.

They fended and that's great. Creative chefs!

BUT...
(For fuck's sake, isn't there always a "but"..)

After the whole long day of chores I couldn't quite complete, and with evening conversations that never seem to end well, all I wanted was a deep sink of the dishes they left behind to scrub and make right. I asked the Kid to leave it for me.

He did not. He cleaned. I was mad.

I'm like his Mom. I just need to digest.
Digest, an important word.

So I do it here.