We’re home and our dishwasher is broken. This may be what sends me back to therapy.
Like many of us, I’m totally fine and about to lose it. I just didn’t know the dishwasher would be the tipping point.
The Cape doesn’t even have a dishwasher. Maybe that’s in its favor. It makes no pretense of anything washing the dishes besides a person.
As the dishwasher-detergent subscriptions pile up, Captain is on the case. He’s fixed the fridge, the washing machine and the clothes dryer so I have faith even if we did call some repair people.
They’re backed up. Everyone’s dishwashers are breaking. Should’ve know. It’s another symptom of this pandemic, just like the backorder on exercise bikes, puppies and sweatpants.
I made that up. They better never run out of sweatpants.
We’re headed back to the Cape as soon as possible, but being there without Captain has brought BB’s lingering jealousy into relief.
At 6 am I’m jolted awake. BB’s little face is peering at me over the side of the bed. She whispers,
“I’m your first baby.”
“Yes! Of course!”
GOOD GRIEF and with that RB startles awake and starts wailing.
Never thought I’d get to the beach by 8am, but this is my year.
With Captain around to play Barbies and otherwise dote on BB, she couldn’t care less that RB is in bed with me. Without him around, she’s inclined to snatch every single toy away from her sister regardless of whether the toy is something she truly wants to play with.
She grabs a pot and pan lid from RB. RB screams. I mention,
“RB was playing with that.”
“But I NEED it.”
“You need it?”
“I don’t have any cymbals.”
And for many reasons this is about when we leave for the beach.
“Who do you love more?”
I have answered this question several ways. This time I try a new tactic,
“You love Frozen right?”
“Do you love Frozen I or Frozen II?”
“Can I watch Frozen II?”
I pop into my obgyn office to get a mysterious spot checked out. No kids allowed. Yes I really had a spot. All is well. The doctor asks,
“Any postpartum depression?”
“No.” But can I tell you about my dishwasher?