All Washed Up

My old kitchen at 680 West had a window over the sink. Out the window was a Bradford pear that fattened birds all winter with its pear berries. I spent approximately 70% of my waking hours in that kitchen and a large chunk of that percentage standing in front of the sink doing an abnormal amount of hand wash dishes. In fact, I stared at my pear tree with prune hands for sixteen years before someone in my family thought a birdfeeder might be a nice gift.

Disclaimer: I hand wash anything with a wooden handle, all my knives, my pots and pans, their lids, my blender, and anything small and plastic that would flip over in the dishwasher and fill up with water anyway. And stuff that doesn't fit in the dishwasher, like giant cutting boards. And dishes that are barely dirty, like measuring cups with flour dust on them. Okay, and my Williams-Sonoma Goldtouch muffin tins (which say "dishwasher-safe" but I just don't buy it). Maybe it's a sickness because my hand wash rules drive my mom crazy and she's the type of lady who isn't bothered by much. However, she's one of those trusting souls that throws everything in the dishwasher regardless of factory recommendations.

In my defense, my old dishwasher sounded like a cat giving birth (to multiple litters) and it scared me. To watch television in the adjacent room one would have to jam the door ajar with a wooden spoon just to cease the birthing.

I had come to grips that my endless hand washing, while irrational and unnecessary, was really my space for mulling, stewing, and deep reverie. I processed what I was currently reading: usually the scriptures but also fiction, biographies, recipes, and self-help articles for my crises du jour. I floated the current of my stream of consciousness and visited all the places a normal woman would go: fretting about thinning hair and droopy skin, wondering how long my parents would live for, picturing RE in every wedding dress silhouette, imagining I owned a bunch of French antiques and where I'd put them, what I needed to write on which of my lists, etc.

Pear tree was a true constant in my life over many seasons and sinks of bubbles. I thought I would really miss it when we moved last year. I thought I might lose my thoughts and find them later piled high all cattywampus. Not so. Hand washing never skipped a beat and my brain remains intact. Instead of staring at leaves and robotic robins I now stare at the textured growth below Lone Peak's timberline. However, I don't meander to odd places anymore and I only stew about one thing: RE is leaving in a year.

Night after night I put the boys to bed, creak my knees up the stairs, and find myself like a moth to a flame at the Chateau's bulls-eye: my kitchen sink.

Stopping up the sink, drawing hot water. The boys called for RE a hundred times today.

Adding blue Dawn, foaming action begins. Dawn! Aurora means dawn! Sob. They looked in her car and poked around her room while calling her name, Everett with his soft r's. They touched her off-limits magnetic hourglass and played with her bouncy ball collection.

Drop in a new washcloth. They heard her Sigur Rós song on their lunch playlist and shouted in unison, "Ari's song!"

Underwater polishing. I am not okay with her being gone. I've heard seniors are never around. What if it only gets worse? I hate her summer job. I'd rather pay her $8/hr to stay at home and be with us.

Running hot water. Actually, she can go. I can't deal with the attitude one more day.

Rinsing, squeaky finger test. I take that back. I just remembered how Archer put his arms around her thigh and squeezed his smiling face against her leg when she picked him up from dinosaur summer camp.

Holding item over sink while the last drips drop. I know it’s not about the money. It's about learning life lessons she can only learn out of the home. She needs a boss, a schedule, the reality of co-workers and the frustration of cleaning the nacho cheese pump. I think she legitimately wants an Albion jumpsuit more than she wants me. Did I even teach her the basics?

Strategic stacking on microfiber drying mat. One year. One! Year! The time bomb in my chest has started counting down and the ticking hurts. One more Paper Source calendar and then my cluster under this roof will never be the same. She will unpack in some cement-walled dorm and then leave for a mission. How far does a roof stretch?

Drying with a clean towel from my bomb-diggity large linen drawer. Eventually she will bring someone back with her and I'll have to let him in and call him "Son". I'll try to love him but what if I can't love him like I love her? What if it's strained and fake for years because he's a cluster-wrecker?

Shaking Bon Ami powder in the four corners of the porcelain sink, rubbing grey lines away with a circular motion. Is he going to come to France when we take the boys when they're older? Am I going to have to wear modest pajamas and be in "polite mode" instead of being relaxed?

Spray cold water on sink walls, shiny white basin sans scratches. The boys looked for her everywhere but quickly moved on when they couldn't find her. How am I going to prevent them from moving on when she actually does? How will we stay attached when her apron strings are cut?

Drop dirty rag in laundry room, flick lights out, walk down the dark hall into my bedroom. Stare at valley twinkles in a perfectly still house. How is this the plan? How am I supposed to mother one on the back burner when I still have two on the front burner?

I feel badly for pre-hating RE’s future husband simply because she took a job at the neighborhood pool two miles away. I’m sure he’s going to be awesome. I just don’t want to meet him yet. I acknowledge I have a six-burnered, built-in griddled German feat of engineering in the kitchen I just cleaned. That means there are three empty burners. I will reluctantly reserve those burners for spouses and squeeze the grandkids on the griddle. I think I’m a good enough cook to handle it. Someday. Just not today.

Today, and so many previous todays and all the 365 todays to come I will continue to feel a little wounded every time I hear big sister roars and little giggles in the basement, or big sister stories being read with a boy on each leg, or three floppy bodies all snoozing in the corner of the sectional with tipped bowls of fishy crackers beside them.

Motherhood is a (harsh) cycle of giving your all and then giving them away, of tracking and then trusting, and of warm, cradled arms unfolding so they can wave goodbye. It turns me inside out.

How is it fair that the children leave yet the dishes remain?