What do married couples argue about when there’s nothing really to fight about but tiredness and the witching hour that kids thrive on? In our home it’s the dishes. And we don’t even do them! That’s the kids chore. Well, the older two. We’re still training the youngest to get his stacked at the sink, empty of food and toys.
It’s amusing (admittedly mildly at first, then immensely once my temper cools) at how many ‘discussions’ my beloved and I have about ‘the dishes’. Such a mundane thing. Yet the one topic guaranteed to spark off a blazing row. The kids slink off to their rooms, wisely. And we, the grown ups, keep trawling through our minds for that one reason to be crankier than the other. Museums of memories will be un-vaulted. I’m busier/tireder/more run down is a constant banter between us.
Life would be easier with a dishwasher. But then who would stack and unpack it?
The commonsensical thing to do would be to admit to tiredness and easy irritability at once upon arrival home. Our upbringings, long may they hold us hostage, beg to differ. There is infinite beauty in the differences between us all. I exalt in cultural differences, adore learning new customs and I wouldn’t be the cook I am if I couldn’t use pasta or whip up a stir fry. The wonder of humanity lays in the spaces between us. The celebration of the other. The learning of tolerance. Wonderful things!
Unless it’s about the dishes.