My Dishwasher's Really Possessed!

It's not easy owning a possessed appliance, especially one that decides to die. 

Thankfully, we have a service agreement until 2015. 

I wasn't thrilled, but I changed my schedule for Tuesday so I would be home when the repairman came. 

As luck would have it, it's now after three.  My first-grader and third-grader, Peter and Lizzy, are now off the bus. I still have to pick up my seventh-grader, Tom.

I was really hoping that the guy would have come and left by now. Because the dishwasher isn't working at all this might take a while. I was not relishing the idea of keeping the kids out of the kitchen while the crazed appliance was being fixed.

Thankfully it only takes a few minutes to pick up Tom. I decide to not even leave a note on the door. 

Peter and Lizzy board the minivan. I make sure to bring snacks because experience has taught me that if I don't I will be hearing cries of starvation instead of whatever music we decide to play. 

"Mommy, I want The Beatles," says Peter.

"You got it".

I enjoy the calm before the storm. The music is playing, the kids are eating. I can breathe.

I watch kids leave the middle school in droves.

I'ts hard to believe that I once went to this same school. I never thought I would end up living only six blocks from the house I grew up in.

Time is moving way too fast.

Peter starts yelling at Lizzy because she has finished her snack and now wants his.

"Come on guys, knock it off. Tom will be here soon, and then it's time to do homework. Lizzy, don't take Peter's snack."

"Sorry mommy," Lizzy says in a very sweet voice. She may be a special-needs child, but she knows how to turn on the charm.

Finally I see Tom walking toward the car. His huge backpack makes him look like a Nepalese Sherpa.

Greetings are exchanged. Tom's starts listing all that he has to do for homework. Peter is trying to get my attention, and Lizzy is singing in the background.

This is the portion of the day when everyone competes for my attention.

It is nice to have all my chicks with me again.

Finally home, I look around and see no repairman. 

"I want to go outside."

"I know Peter, but we have to do homework first. OK honey?"

"I want to go outside."

"Yes. I know. Later, homework first."

"OK."

I check our messages, and wouldn't you know it, the repairman called. Oh no, I missed him. 

I call the service department, and they let me know that he's running late and may not make it to my house until around 6.

Lizzy begins yelling about a princess lost in a forest.

She comes into my room angry that she can't get a fifth dress over her head.

I try to listen to the women at the other end of the phone while my 10-year-old daughter with multiple special needs is getting progressively louder. 

I consider rescheduling the repair appointment since I know the later it gets, the harder it will be for Lizzy to keep it together.

Peter is also now standing next to me asking for a hug.

Tom comes in and starts talking to me about a song he found on his iPod, either not caring or not realizing that I'm on the phone trying to get my dishwasher fixed.

The woman from the service department comes back on the line and lets me know that the repair man will be at my house in about a half hour.

I look at the troops, and though I question whether they will make it, I decide to keep the appointment. I really don't want to go another day without my dishwasher.

I hang up the phone, and there's a knock at the door.

Wow, that was fast.

All four of us run to the door.

Hooray. The cavalry has arrived.

Wrong. It's just my mother.

She's holding a huge bag filled with some very cute stuffed bunny rabbits that her secretary thought Lizzy would love. 

Lizzy is now very happy and starts running back and forth putting the bunnies in her room.

As my mom walks in, she informs me that the repair guy is right behind her.

Wow, did I get lucky? The repairman and my mom. Life is good. The dishwasher will get fixed, and my mom can always go outside and play with the kids so they won't get in the guy's hair.

I smile warmly and inform the repairman that this is the home of the possessed dishwasher. 

I even let him know that I have a blog of the same name and let him know all the great suggestions my readers have given me if in fact the dishwasher is beyond repair.

He laughs and asks me when the problem started.

Then he tries the dishwasher.

And this is when the possessed appliance displays its true colors and starts. Instantly. 

I stare in disbelief.

How can this be? The stupid box has not blinked, lit up, made even a whimper in four days. 

I just tried it a few hours ago.

I'm now laughing and claiming that it is in fact a genuine possessed appliance.

Tom is now hystercially laughing as well, and I grab the phone and call my husband.

"Joe, the repairman is here and you are not going to believe this. The dishwasher is working just fine."

Joe is laughing on the phone, while Tom and my mom are hysterical.

I'm not sure what the repairman thought.

The repairman runs a few tests, and my mother comes in the kitchen.

"Mom I can't believe this, it works perfectly now. It's possessed."

"Kathy, you know a dishwasher can't really be possessed," my mother says, very seriously.

Now Tom is laughing even harder since the idea that my mother has taken this whole thing seriously is just too much for him.

"Oh, no mom. It's possessed. This thing did not work for four days. It's possessed."

"Well, it's working just fine now ma'am," says the repairman, not really quite knowing what to make of us all.

"This is impossible. This thing has not worked for three days."

"Well, sometimes these thing happen."

He leaves and I stare at the appliance for a while.

There is only one possible answer. The dishwasher reads the blog, and it was just toying with me. 

My Dishwasher My Muse

Yesterday my husband woke me up with some disappointing news. Apparently our possessed dishwasher died or slipped into a coma.


Never being one to believe anything that Joe tells me regarding the  health of an appliance, I quickly went to check on the patient myself.


I jiggled the door. I tried to rebalance it. I pushed every button I could.


No luck.


Not one light went on. No odd noises. Nothing.


Joe was right, it was dead.


Our family of five will be without a dishwasher until a repairman comes Tuesday.


I'm going to guess that most moms would be upset at the thought of being without their dishwasher for a few days.


But my first thought wasn't all the dishes I would have to hand wash until the repairman comes and performs what will be the sixth exorcism on this crazy machine that has never worked properly from the day we bought it.


No, the first thing I thought of was, is this a sign? Are the fates trying to tell me something about my blog?


After all, I started blogging at the same time we purchased the dishwasher. It's been my muse, even my alter ego.


To say that I'm a late bloomer in regard to technology would be a gross understatement.


Never in a million years would I have guessed that blogging would become such an important part of my life.


I didn't even have an email address until 18 months ago, and I did that only because my kids' schools went paperless. There I was in the fall of 2010, face-to-face with the modern world of the 1990s.


The idea that I'm now a full-fledged mom blogger writing my weekly essay, keeping up with my Facebook page and Tweeting is enough to make most people who know me crack up.


I know my Alexa ranking, my Google score, and the number of page views I get each day.


There have been times in the last year-and-a-half that my family has wondered who I am and what have I done with their mother?


What happens if my dishwasher gets fixed, or, heaven forbid, replaced?


I have to admit that my crazed appliance has become a bit of a security object, not unlike my youngest son's stuffed bear Fuzzy.


Peter has had Fuzzy since he was nine-months old, and that bear has been through everything with him.


Now seven, Peter doesn't need Fuzzy in the same way he once did. He even left him home the last time he slept over at my parents' house.


But when the pressures of being in first grade really get to him, he still turns to Fuzzy.


I feel that way about the crazed appliance. Can I write without my dishwasher being possessed?


You may think it silly for a grown women to be so attached to a kitchen appliance, especially one that barely functions.


But the dishwasher came into our lives at the same time that I started this blog. I  was very nervous about finally putting my thoughts out on the Internet and pressing publish.


I knew I had something to say and something to offer, but thinking it and actually doing it are two different things.


I was also at a crossroad.


Peter was starting kindergarten.


For the first time in 12 years I was going to have a stretch of time with no kids at home.


My identity had been very tied up in being a mom to small kids. It was a job I had wanted for as long as I could remember, and I was feeling very sad that this chapter was ending.


I loved walking babies in strollers, cuddling them in a rocking chair, and chasing toddlers around the supermarket. I was sad that this time was over.


Turning to writing and blogging has filled a void in my life.


In the last 18 months, I have found much joy in writing and sharing our family's adventures. I love being the mom behind the crazy appliance.


I'm not the same person I was when I started posting my weekly blogs.


I'll confess that the children are not always sure they like this new mom.


"Mom, you have become obsessed with that site," my 13-year-old said to me after a recent family outing. "All you do is write and work on the blog."


He was really upset. My kids were not used to sharing me with anyone, least of all a blog.


I felt for him. I have very clear memories of how I felt when my mother started to work and really loved it. 


I explained that as much as I love being their mom, my blog brings me a lot of pleasure. We also went over the guidelines about what I could and could not share about them.


The truth is as much as I love my life as a mom, I really like my time as a writer.


At 46 I have found a path that I really enjoy.


And, I have a possessed dishwasher to thank for it.


Even if its demon is exorcised on Tuesday.

Freefall

I have always had a secret wish to jump out of an airplane and skydive. 


The idea of flying for even a few seconds before my parachute opens up and takes me safely to the ground seems not only exciting but romantic.


I imagine the world out in front of me. Feeling the air on my face, my heart beating wildly as adrenaline pumps through my veins. 


A part of me yearns for the exhilarating feeling of being one with the sky.


As much as I may read about skydiving, and love to hear stories from people who have done it, I will never really know what it's like till I try it myself.


There are just some things you have to experience for yourself.


Parenting tops the list.


I thought of this as I was driving our youngest Peter, 7, to his first play date without me.


Seven might seem a tad old for this milestone, especially since he is my youngest and I've been through this before. 


But, Peter's speech delay and some of his more eccentric behaviors made waiting till he was ready a must. Though not officially on the autism spectrum, he does have his share of sensory issues that make life interesting. 


The years of hard work Peter has done in speech, physical and occupational therapy are really starting to pay off.  He is learning to deal with the world on the world's terms and has been having a great year in school.  


That didn't stop me from having a mini anxiety attack.


All of a sudden I think of something that should have occurred to me before.What if they have a dog? Peter has a very big fear of dogs. He gets upset at even the mere mention of the word dog.


Now I'm beating myself up. Why didn't I check on this before? I could have prepared him. 


I pull into the driveway, and Peter's friend runs out to us. 


Peter is very happy and out we go, leaving Tom and Lizzy in the van as we walk up to the house.


Then Peter stops short of the front door.


"I'm not going in. I want to go home." He says this very matter of factly. No crying.


"Peter, your friend is so happy you are here, let's go."


"They have a dog."


"How do you know they have a dog?"


I notice a garden statue of a dog on their lawn. 


With that, Jane, the boy's mother, comes out on her porch and greets us with a warm smile.


"Hi, by the way do you have a dog?" I say this very calmly with a big smile on my face.


"Yes, we do, we have two. Do you want to see them?" Jane said this very excitedly like this was a big selling point.


"I"m not going in," says a very adamant Peter.


Memories of dealing with my first child, now 13, flood back to me. All the times I had to talk a younger Tom "off the ledge" whenever a Josh Groban song came on the radio when we were at a restaurant or store.


My daughter Lizzy's special needs are so significant, the boys' sensory issues pale in comparison. But they do keep me on my toes.


Now, I'm no push-over. I've been dealing with eccentric behaviors for 13 years. But I also know that if I don't handle this carefully, there are bigger implications. I want Peter to know he can handle the big world on his own, and I don't want him to be embarrassed in front of his friend.


I say softly, as sweet as I can, "Move your tail, you will be fine, we will deal with this."


Jane, noticing that dogs may not be such a welcome thing, promises to put the dogs outside.


Peter looks at me and realizes this is one of those situations where he is going to have to just go through with it. 


We walk in and once Peter realizes the dogs are in fact outside he starts running around with his friend. Jane and I decide all looks good, so I say I'll be back in about an hour and out I go.


I get in my minivan and I can feel my heart and the familiar feeling of anxiety come upon me. I thought I was hiding it pretty well until Tom turns to me.


"Mom, why are you freaking out? This isn't your first kid."


"I know," I said, laughing that he could read my mind.


"Mom, Peter is going to be fine. You were never this nervous when I went on a play date."


I looked at him for a moment. "Are you nuts? Of course I was."


"Why were you nervous?"


Tom has learned to deal with his sensory issues to the point that nobody would ever know he ever had them. But it wasn't always the case.


"Tom, have we forgotten all the little things that use to freak you out, like opera?"


"Oh, yeah. I forgot."


"Well, a mom never forgets." 


"Well, I'm not worried about Peter. I used to worry about him and Lizzy all the time, but not anymore."


It's true too, he does worry about them. It doesn't seem to matter that I have never lost a kid in my life. His father and I are always reminding him that we are the parents and he does not need to worry about his siblings.


"Well, honey that's great. But you are his brother. I'm the mom. I'm  responsible for all three of you. I love you all so much and want to make sure you are all safe and happy."


"Wow, that's a lot of responsibility... I don't think I will ever have kids."


We both start laughing. 


About an hour later we pick up a very happy Peter. He feels very good about himself. The mom reports that all went well.


I get back in my minivan. A feeling of relief washes over me, the endorphins kick in as I realize that Peter has accomplished this big task. He has a huge smile on his face. He is very proud of himself.


I take a deep breath, feeling pretty darn happy myself.


Maybe I will try skydiving next.  

Spring Rewind

Well, the Easter eggs have been colored and eaten, the chocolate bunnies have been massacred, and another holiday is in the memory books.


The time is going so fast now that I can't even seem to catch my breath anymore.


Not only are my own children growing, but my niece and three nephews have the nerve to grow up right before my eyes as well. This was so apparent at my parents' house for the now-traditional Easter Saturday gathering.

How is it possible that the same little girls who used to color eggs and compare the loot in their Easter baskets are now the mothers for this brood?


It seems like the perfect time to re-run an essay I did last Easter. This piece ran April 24, 2011, and is as relevant to me as it was a year ago.


A Link in the Chain


I was boiling eggs for our kids to color for Easter when I realized it was official... I'm a grown-up.

I am 45, and you would think this revelation would have hit me sooner. But my sisters and I all waited until our thirties and forties to have children and had an extended childhood of sorts.

I've been on my own since I was 23, but it wasn't until I had my own children that my parents stopped coloring eggs with us, or at least, for us, if we couldn't come early for the egg coloring. There was also a lovely Easter basket waiting for me on Easter morning.

As I was getting everything ready for our brood this year, it occurred to me that the torch has been passed. Memories of my own childhood are still on my mind, but they have been surpassed by memories I have of the family I created with my husband.

We've developed our own traditions, different from the ones I grew up with. 


A case in point would be my version of egg coloring, which is certainly not as professional as my father's. He would faint if he saw the mess I made as I added color to the bowls because the kit I bought was not doing such a good job.

There were no kits in my house when I was growing up. We used food coloring. 


If my father had his way, we would have made dye from the vegetables and flowers my sisters and I would have had to forage for in the suburban wilds of Long Island.


Thank you Mom for keeping Grizzly Adams on a leash.

My father's egg coloring operation was enough for an army of bunnies. The egg holders were fashioned out of wire: Store-bought holders were not for us. The bowls of dye were lined in a row, and the eggs were laid out so the festivities could begin.


My father has been coloring eggs my whole life, even when there wasn't a baby or child in sight.

My parents love to celebrate holidays. My mother made the most beautiful Easter baskets for us filled with handmade chocolate bunnies, intricately decorated sugar eggs, and other truly beautiful confections from speciality candy stores.

Mass-market bunnies were not for her girls. The baskets frequently had a theme, such as a garden or spring toys. When I was eight, she did a sewing theme and I got pink thread, a pin cushion, and sewing needles.

There was a magical excitement to walk downstairs and find the baskets we set out the night before lined in a row and filled with treats. Each basket was topped with a beautiful bow or ribbon that mom would put in our hair for church.

My sisters and I would giggle, eat jelly beans, and compare what the bunny brought us: "I got pink bubbles..." "I got blue..." "My bunny has a purple bow..." "Mine has yellow."

The Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, and Santa Claus were all important visitors to our house throughout my childhood. 


They were so important that long after we were children, my parents incorporated them into our holidays. Egg hunts and all. This of course was a source of amusement for our husbands.

The other day my 12-year-old, Tom, and I were discussing plans for Easter. It's been extra fun this year because our six-year-old, Peter, has been so excited over the prospect of a visit from the Easter Bunny.

"Mom, it is so cute that he believes in the Easter Bunny," said Tom, who was four when he figured there was no such thing.


"It just doesn't make sense," he said at the time.

I shared with him that, until he was born, my parents still hid eggs for me and his aunts. He thought this was hysterical. The image of his grown mother and her sisters looking for colored eggs was just too much. Then he said, "That's so cute mom."

My parents are in their glory now with seven grandchildren ranging from 12 years down to five months. My mother's beautiful baskets are now reserved for her grandchildren, who open them up with the same amazement my sisters and I had.

The egg hunts are much more exciting now with children rushing all over the yard.

I relish the idea that years from now there will be a whole new generation talking about their memories of my parents and the holidays they made special.

In my house, I am the one and only official Easter Bunny. Different perhaps then the bunny of my childhood, but just as special for our three children.

The chain continues.


I hope whether you celebrate Passover, Easter, or the arrival of Spring, you have the pleasure of spending it with people you love. As always, thank you for your wonderful support. The dishwasher returns with a new post next week.


Kathy Radigan

Special Delivery

Lying in bed I feel another contraction. The familiar tightening and release. The same contractions I've had for the last four months.  


The contractions that have me on modified bed rest, not allowed to drive, and brought me to the hospital two times in just the last few weeks. 


I'm hoping this is just another false alarm. 


I have my bag packed, my Norah Jones CD ready, and my favorite doctor all scheduled to do my C-section Monday morning. 


It's Sunday, 2:00 a.m. I'm to be at the hospital in 28 hours.


I really don't want to call the doctor in the middle of the night. That will ruin the "nice patient" status my favorite doctor gave me.


I can't quite explain the crush I have on Dr. B. except to say that it is perfectly innocent and my husband is well aware of it. 


In fact he said that you can always tell whenever Dr. B. is in the office because all the women's voices rise two octaves and get very sweet whenever he walks into the examining rooms.



Dr. B. gained permanent crush status when he called me the day I left the hospital with my daughter three years earlier. 


He had to fly to the Bahamas after Lizzy's delivery and called me from there. He even remembered my new baby's name. I was looking forward to my last baby being delivered by him.



Joe played on my crush when months earlier I was shocked to discover that I was pregnant with baby number three. I was excited for sure, but I was also scared out of my mind. 


This baby, though very wanted, was not in the plan. After four miscarriages and two babies born with the help of fertility specialists, it seemed impossible that we could get and stay pregnant the good old fashioned way.


What if I miscarried again? Lizzy had been such a difficult pregnancy and overseen by a high-risk practice. Would I survive a third baby? 


I was a wreck that August evening standing with Joe looking down at the positive test result.


"Kathy, just think, you'll get to see Dr. B. again."


I can always depend on that man to make me laugh.


Another contraction.


The clock says 2:05 a.m. 


Then I felt a gush of water. 


Oh no, this is not a test, this is the real deal. 


I attempt the Herculean task of lumbering my extremely pregnant body down the stairs to the play room, where Joe and Tom are camping out, complete with a tent and sleeping bags.


"Joe," I whisper, trying to sound calm in case a six-year-old Tom should wake up.


"Joe... Joe..."


"Yeah," my husband croaks out.


"My water just broke.'


"Oh... did you call the doctor?"


"Not yet."


"Well, you call the doctor and then wake me up."


I consider life as a single parent. 


I decide that yelling at my husband is not going to get me to the hospital any faster, and I better start enacting a plan unless I really want a home birth.


I call the special emergency number for the high-risk patients and let them know what is going on. They connect me to the very tired head of the practice. He tells me to come to the hospital and assures me he lives only five minutes from the hospital. If I'm in fact in labor, they will call him, and he will do the C-section then and there. 


Of course he's the doctor on call. Though an excellent doctor and the hospital's chief of obstetrics, he doesn't have Dr. B.'s personal touch.


So much for best-laid plans.


No Dr. B, no Norah Jones in the background. This baby had a sense of humor.


I deal with another contraction and then call my parents because someone will have to watch Lizzy and Tom. Thankfully the kids haven't woke up.


It was hard to believe that only hours before, we had had our special dinner out with the kids. Over hamburgers Joe and I went over the game plan for "baby week" with Tom and Lizzy. 


We let them know that Sunday we would have chocolate chip pancakes at their favorite diner. Then we would bring them to Grandma and Grandpa's house, where they will stay while mommy is in the hospital with their new baby brother.


I had the "It's a Boy" pencils ready to go for Tom's kindergarten and Lizzy's preschool class. Their "I'm a Big Brother, and "I'm a Big Sister" shirts were all set for them to wear to the hospital and for school. I was prepared.


I saw my reflection in a store window and tried to burn it into my memory. There I was, hugely pregnant, holding hands with my gorgeous boy and girl knowing this was going to be my last pregnancy and one of our last times out as a family of four.


Another contraction comes, and I know I better get moving since they were only getting stronger and we still had a 40 minute drive to the hospital.


I look at the cradle in the corner of my bedroom, no sheet or bumper ready. I thought I still had a whole day to get it prepared. How different from when I was expecting Tom and the cradle was all set up weeks before his arrival.


Dressed, and ready to go, I head down the stairs once again and wake Joe. 


He seems surprised to hear me say I'm ready and we have to leave for the hospital. But, he gets up and gets dressed.


I answer the door in the black of the night and see my parents smiling at me.


The contractions are coming pretty regularly now and I'm not in a very smiley mood, but I try.


My parents are very big natural birth proponents, having me and my sisters that way. No drugs. Lamaze breathing. My dad was even in the delivery room when my youngest sister was born in 1970, a time when it was still a very new thing to do.


They both start coaching me in my breathing. 


I start to wonder what I did in a previous life to deserve this special kind of hell.


Joe is getting a cup of coffee and once again I contemplate single parenthood.


Finally, we are off to the hospital.


We see the same familiar faces in the admitting department that I have seen on my two previous visits.


"I'm not leaving this time without a baby," I announce.


We all laugh.


It's Sunday, 4:30 a.m.


Now settled in the labor room, it is pronounced that I am, yes, in fact in active labor and will be having this baby now. My doctor is called and they get me ready for my third C-Section.


I'll spare you some of my more colorful language that I used before they could give me my epidural. Suffice it to say that I apologized to all of them between contractions and let them know that the doctors   considered me one of their nicest patients.


Sunday, 6:00 a.m. My beautiful baby boy is born. 


I look at the sweet, six-pound baby that I was sure was 18 pounds and I'm instantly in love.


Back in the recovery room, Joe and I are smiling our heads off and all thoughts of single parenthood are gone.


We start making the calls: Baby Peter is here, a day early, but perfect.


Our family is complete. Three children, just like we had always wanted. I feel like we just won the lottery.


I can't believe that it was seven years ago that the boy who makes me laugh and smile when I least feel like it, was born. He brings humor and joy into our family, and I couldn't imagine life without him.


Happy birthday Peter.