The following is a segment of my morning's proceedings.

Mom is trying to wash the top fitting to the garbage can. She discovered weeks ago that she could complete the unhappy task in the dishwasher. I hear her in the kitchen. I am sitting a room away, and yet I hear her. I hear the jingle of flatware, the clang of the sliding dishwasher trays. I hear muttered obscenities—or, what I perceive to be obscenities by their threatening pitch. I listen for a while, amused. My mother is a mild-natured woman. These fits are not common.

I move to the front lines. She has been trying for ten minutes to get that part of the garbage can to fit in the dishwasher. She has done it before. She knows it can be done.

I inquire innocently, "Whatever are you doing making all that racket?" She straightens, locks of angry tresses falling about her face. Her eyes are glassy, fevered in frustration.

"I am trying to get this thing in the dishwasher, but it won't fit."

She tries to twist it another way. I see the solution to the problem, the exact placement of the part necessary for the drawer to close. I have always had an eye for puzzle-piecing. I instruct her on the proper course. As expected, my advice is met with dispute.

"No. It doesn't fit that way." (she proceeds to demonstrate how it won't fit as she chastises my efforts of helpfulness) "I've tri—hmm."

(It fits.)

(Silence.)

She looks up, cheeks rosy, "Smart ass."