Tuesdays are my day to pick up The Seven Year Old from school, take him to his house and wait there until his brother gets home and releases me from my indentureship.
Shortly after arriving at his house, his mother phoned and asked me to make sure he unloads the dishwasher. Apparently he won't do it when his brother tells him to and it's his brother's job to load the dishwasher, turn it on and wash whatever there wasn't room for, by hand. The Seven Year Old is the grandson who likes to talk. That's putting it politely. He's the kid that won't shut up. As he chatted and unloaded in the kitchen I sat in the livingroom and knit and as a good grandma should, threw out the occasional Oh ya. Uh huh. Really? Then he wandered over and as he stood before me grinding his fist (Don't ask me. I don't know why.) into the bottom of the glass I had been drinking from last night at Thanksgiving dinner it occurred to me that I had neglected to tell him to wash his hands. Cutlery, plates, glasses, pots and pans had all been slathered with germs from his grubby little digits and I've seen where he puts those grubby little digits. The last time those hands had touched soap and water was probably during last night's bath. Now I'm wondering if his brother ever makes him wash his hands before unloading all those clean dishes. Probably not. Now you know why I feel sick.