Torture Revised

I am convinced that watching Jacob empty the dishwasher is a form of torture, similar to that of Bekah packing her lunch, both of which are equal to a steady drip of water on your forehead or being drawn and quartered.
I can't help but relive the details...
I emptied most of the dishwasher this morning, leaving only a bowl, two measuring cups and a cookie cutter on the top rack and a plate, cookie rack and the silverware on the bottom. I told Jacob the rest was his job while handing him a spatula and a big plastic spoon. He whined, cried "Why me!" and made his way, inch by inch to the drawer where he used the utensils to open the drawer (not a very effective means, if you ask me). Then he moped back to the dishwasher and stared at the remaining seven+ things. I pointed at each one and told him where they go, in case he'd forgotten since last time. (I wish I could forget the last time.) He picked up a measuring cup gingerly, with only two fingers and as little contact as possible and then let it fall back in. He whined again, this time only sounds, "Uhhh! Uhhh!"
I ignored him and turned my attention to Bekah. She is in charge of making her lunch everyday. She has to make her sandwich (PB&Honey), gather her snacks, and put it all in her lunchbox. This sounds like an easy task, but don't let that mislead you. The sandwich part is always the hardest. In fact today we worked out a deal where I make her sandwich once a week. Then there's the issue of the lunchbox. Bekah has two elmo lunchboxes, one flowered one, and a polly pocket bag that's meant for polly pockets but has only ever held perishables. Every day Bekah makes the insufferable decision of which bag to take. Today it's a walmart bag - every other one is apparently blacklisted. Watching her "make her lunch" is like trying to get a fly to go outside. She'll circle close to the pantry but then get distracted by the magnets on the fridge. She'll get out the bread and PB for her sandwich but then also find pen and paper to doodle on. She'll get everything out but not in baggies and then in baggies but not in her lunchbox. As the frustration swells inside of me I turn my attention to Jacob.
Somehow he has emptied the top rack of its four items.
He is now picking up silverware, one piece at a time, and dropping it back in the holder. Every once in a while a knife breaks free and winds up in the drawer, hopping from section to section in the divided drawer before landing in it's proper place. Slowly the forks and then the spoons meet the same fate, some of them swooshing into their slots like airplanes, some seeming to explode into the drawer with sound effects and all.
Eighteen minutes after starting, the last teaspoon is laid to rest and Jacob happily closes the dishwasher. He is happy now, pleased with himself. I am sitting nearby, drained from his effort, my fingers weary from resisting the impulse to take over at least fifty times. My jaw is clenched and sore and my head hurts.
Bekah has packed her snacks in baggies and has left the table a mess with an empty goldfish box and a mountain of walmart bags. It's my turn to make her sandwich and I do so in about thirty seconds. It's almost a relief to do it myself so that I don't have to watch her do it for five minutes.
Torture, I'm telling you. Pure torture.