No one likes to do the dishes. Well, except for the tiny trio (who are about to outgrow that moniker, by the way). As they take great delight in the chromed magic that is our dishwasher, opening and closing and once again opening its door. And even standing upon it if they’re feeling saucy. Of great fascination are the two racks which slide in and out. And the silverware holder? It rivals Dora.
Okay, that’s bullshit. Nothing rivals Dora. Except for possibly Caillou. Who’s bald at age four with no apparent medical condition which would require any type of hair-losing remedy. And whose parents are annoyingly empathetic, not to mention always successful in conveying moral-laden nuggets of wisdom in sing-songy fashion. And, oh, by the way, could someone please tell Caillou’s narrator to dial it down just a touch? This isn’t Shakespeare, girlfriend. It’s a borderline sanctimonious, B-minus cartoon about a bald kid. Yet, I digress. This post isn’t about Caillou. It’s about what happens when toddler triplets do the dishes.