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Because somebody sometime invented the dishwasher, I didn’t have to spend my time piddling around at the sink muttering about dirty dishes I didn’t want to wash. 

Which I considered a good thing.  And which might’ve merited a ‘Hallelujah,’ had I actually spoken aloud.

Then because my son asked yesterday if the dishwasher was clean, and because it was, I said, “yes.”

By which time, he yelled, “YAYYYY,” and then asked if he could unload the thing–“himself.”

And because of my generous spirit…*grin*…and because I couldn’t believe my ear drums, I said, “yes” again.

Only because of my son’s enthusiasm as he yanked the dishwasher door down, and because he began singing praises about his good fortune, namely, “Jesus Loves Me,” his sister, who sensed she was being left out, tossed her book on the couch and asked if she could help, too. 

By which time her brother thought about it and then negotiated that she could sit on the counter and he could hand the glasses up to her. 

And because she agreed, the two of them–bless them–unloaded the dishwasher in twice the time it would take me with my eyes closed. 

Which isn’t the point.  Because there really isn’t one…

Except to say that my heart swelled.  And to mention that…

whatever the kid with the plates in his arms wanted, he had only to ask his mother.

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