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dishes went out of style and the silver pattern was discontinued.
    When electric dishwashers came out, I figured it would do for my family what panty hose did for my condo thighs ...pull them together as one.
    The day the dishwasher was installed marked the first time my children fought...yes, fought... to see who would load it first.
    The second night, the one who used to spit on the plates opened the door of the dishwasher and said, “How do you expect me to clear the table when there are dishes in there from yesterday?”
    I had an answer. She did not like it.
    “No one said anything about emptying the dishwasher,” she said. “I just fill it.”
    Had this child been a steward on the Titanic and someone asked her for a life preserver, she would have said, “I'm sorry, but that is not my station. I work the aft deck.”
    I cannot put my finger on it, but there was just something “yucky” about touching all those squeaky clean plates and sparkling pieces of silverware and returning them to the drawers and cupboards that turned kids off. They just didn't want to get their hands clean.
    I've been emptying the dishwasher ever since we got it. As I do it, I cannot help but reflect on why I had children. What a thing to say. I had them because they would carry my genes and give me everlasting life. They would fill my life with joy and purpose and give meaning to my very existence.
    On the other hand, German shepherd puppies can lick a dish clean in 30 seconds without moving the plate ... and they're real pleasant while they're doing it.
    I don't understand it. The kids sit there all during dinner and never mention dishes. The conversation is light. Then one starts with something as subtle as, “Boy, I got a lot of homework tonight. The rest of you can sit here and talk if you want.” He begins to leave the table.
    “You leave this table,” says another sibling, “and I'll break your face. It's not my turn to do dishes!”
    The other one hops in, “It's not my turn. I didn't eat anything, so I'm out.”
    The first one says, “We can figure this out very simply. I did them Tuesday because we had spaghetti. I always get stuck doing them when we have spaghetti because Mom never liked me.”
    “Get off my case,” says another cast member. “You haven't done them in three weeks because of ball practice. You don't even play ball. You just suit up and sit in the shower room to get out of doing dishes.”
    “That's a pretty rotten thing to say for someone who lets the dog help him clear. You think we haven't seen you?”
    “At least I don't leave the broiler in the oven, the pans soaking in the sink, and save empty corn cobs in the refrigerator.”
    It's the end of the first act; Parents give them a sitting ovation.
    In my naivete, I always thought a family doing dishes together built character. I perceived it as a sharing experience where everyone pitched in and made it a better world.
    This myth exploded the night we took a steak knife away from one of the boys who said it wasn't his “turn” and was using his brother as a dart board.
    We moved right along to plan B, in which each of them would have his night in the kitchen and then be off for two nights. However, there was so much trading and paying back that the bookkeeping became unwieldy and we moved to a new house to start fresh.
    We called the kids the three S's. Each had his own personality in the kitchen.
    One was a Soaker. Everything soaked. The only thing that wasn't put in the sink and filled with water was the spaghetti pot, which always looked clean and hung with spaghetti hardened on it for three years.
    One was a Saver. No leftover was too small to store in its original serving dish: a grape, a French fry, a wad of gum left on the dinner plate. All were preserved for whoever was on for dishes the next night.
    The other one was a Slammer ... a one-person wrecking crew who could demolish a table in 30 seconds. She cleared. She stacked. She washed. She