Raising teenage girls is a lot like drinking molten steel.

Except that with teenagers, the trauma is unrelenting. There’s no swift, merciful end; just a sustained, soul-searing affliction.

And as a parent, it is expected that you transcend the rage of your teenage antagonist and soldier on, lovingly and consistently providing the instruction, necessities and boundaries that she needs to help shape her into a young woman.

They start out so small, so simple, so cute. They wear pink, they shuffle around in mommy’s shoes, pretend they’re princesses and force you to drink pretend tea at a microscopic table while flanked by a stuffed bear and a stuffed bunny. If you’re lucky you get to wear a tiara. And don’t forget to hold your pinky up.

And then, somewhere along the way, that sweet little thing is swapped for this dark, hostile, unapproachable creature who, for reasons unknown, has decided that you are no longer her ally but her sworn enemy, someone whose sole agenda item is to control her and make her life miserable.

Because, obviously, that’s exactly what her mom and I had always wanted to do, from early on in our lives. I’ll always remember one of our earliest conversations, soon after we met:

“Say, sweetie, have you had the burning desire to control every aspect of your daughter’s life and make her miserable?”

“Why, yes, honey! How curious that you should bring that up! Let me show you a list of all the ways in which I’ve aspired to spend the rest of my life bringing sorrow and difficulty to my daughter’s life, for no good reason other than that it would be such a lark!”

Yeah. All parents do that. Every teenager knows this. This is why we provide healthy food, a warm home, homework support, access to a computer, rides to school when necessary, the occasional treat, and cell phone service. Deplorable! Child abuse!

Because what we secretly love is having attitude thrown in our face, regardless of the conversation initiator:

Step-father: “Did you eat breakfast?”

Daughter: “ALL RIGHT! Jeeez! I’ll do it in a MINUTE! CAN’T I JUST FINISH what I’m doing FIRST? SHEESH!”

Mother: “I like cheese.”

Daughter: “YOU HATE ME! I CAN’T WAIT UNTIL I CAN MOVE OUT OF THIS HORRIBLE PLACE!”

Seriously – there is absolutely no escape from the attitude. It appears every where, every time, under every circumstance, in every condition, with every word. And why? Where does it come from? To what do we attribute this simmering cauldron of anger that bubbles just under the surface, ready to erupt with even the slightest perceived provocation? Only God knows.

And still we press on, pursuing a goal only hoped for and not seen, heads down, teeth clenched and shoulders squared.

Between the “Screamo” music (imagine a lunatic shouting unintelligibly at the top of his lungs mixed with the sounds of an industrial machine shop and a jet engine at top RPM) that blasts Michael awake at 5:30 AM, the heady, cloying scent of “Ragdoll” perfume that rolls down the stairs every morning, the vigorous heel-dragging at homework time and the pall of angst that hangs over the family room, I’ve pretty much had my fill.

But… I will say this:

She helps with the garbage when asked. She does the dishes, when prodded. She remembers to pick up her brother at the bus stop, and she takes good care of him when his mom and I aren’t around.

My hope for the future is that once she has passed through all of this, the tumult of raging hormones and conflicting notions, that she will emerge a kind, loving, diligent and self-respecting young lady.

My hope for my wife and myself is that at that time we won’t be completely grey.

I often look forward to Mondays, oddly enough.

Many weekends turn out to be anything but that much sought-after safe harbor of relaxation and stress relief.

On these weekends, trouble comes in a continual flood, whether it be in the form of white-hot, soul-draining teenage angst, dealings with inconsiderate neighbors, unfinished (or un-budgeted) projects, a whirlwind schedule, or any of countless other stress-inducing conditions or situations.

This last weekend was no exception.

And in times of stress, I like to clean. It’s the purging of clutter and the reclamation of horizontal surfaces that make me feel better. I take out my aggression  upon things, showing no mercy in my tossing of old stuff that I might have considered useful at one time, or things that I stashed to “deal with later”.

Thus, I spent the better part of yesterday cleaning the garage, putting away the last of the Christmas boxes, reorganizing shelves and tossing old junk. I cleaned my workbench too. What had been a hopeless tangle of tools, screws, wire and miscellaneous project parts is now a clean desktop ready for the next project.

This weekends frustrations yielded a few nice dividends:

1) Those frustrations were resolved peacefully.

2) My garage is clean enough to get my car in, out of the rain and cold.

I came to work this morning with a calm and peaceful attitude, driving a warm, dry car.

Life is good.

We got a lot done this weekend, which always makes me feel wealthy.

The Oregon weather was very accommodating for outside work, even in this traditionally dismal time of year. It was downright warm on Saturday, and though the skies presented an ever-impending threat of rain, it never came. I was able to get the Christmas tree stripped and dragged out to the front curb, and tag it with the large green note for the Boy Scouts who come along and take used Christmas trees off to their final destination, whatever that might be.

Later I was able to take down the last of the outdoor Christmas lights. It was a snap, too, thanks to those marvelous cup hooks I’d installed up a few weeks ago.

Michael started a new sport this last Saturday, too: Basketball. He has been so excited to play. Luckily, we had a regulation-sized Junior basketball on hand. It needed a good pumping up but it had plenty of bounce. Michael learned how to dribble, pass and shoot in the space of an hour – and he’s quite good  at it. When we got home he wanted to practice more.

“Well, I have to get the car in the garage, which means I need to get it cleaned up and Christmas stuff put away…”

“Okay! You do that and I’ll help,” he said. And by help, he means that he’d pick up random objects and play with them in random ways and put them down in random places and then run off to watch SpongeBob after he gets bored.

So this gave me impetus to clean more, which I did. Got the garage almost completely cleared out on my side. Unfortunately time ran out, and other duties called.

Sunday was more of the same, with the added bonus of thoroughly cleaning the backyard and having home made pizza for dinner. Thrown in there was a walk for mom & dad and a bike ride for Michael, culminating with an impromptu playdate for Michael with his best friend J. All in all, a successful, productive weekend.

Michael starts swimming again tonight. With a regular swim schedule on weekdays and basketball on Saturday, this kid is going to have plenty of outlets for all that energy. At least, that’s our hope. He really enjoys swimming, and I am maintaining my Olympic dreams for him (Michael Phelps was said to be afraid of putting his head in the water at seven years old, so our little guy has already got a jump on him). 2020 maybe, 2024 for sure.

But maybe he’ll like basketball even more. There’s room for another Michael in the hoops world, I think. Although, he’s likely going to have a bit of a height disadvantage.

He needs these opportunities in sports to learn how to work in a team environment: how to lose or win gracefully, how to share, and how to function as a vital part of a greater whole. ADHD kids are generally challenged in the “plays well with others” area, but he’s made tremendous strides over the last few years, and we’re confident that his school environment, friendships and the extra-curricular activities of basketball and swimming this year will continue to help shape his social senses.

In any case, I’m very pleased that his competitive nature drives him to perform well in the water and on the court, and that he’s motivated to be physically active. It’ll serve him well no matter what his life’s ambitions are.

I have no doubt that 2012 will be an exciting year for us. Even if there aren’t Olympic tryouts for 7-year-olds.

On a morning not long ago, I stood at the bus stop with Michael while we waited for his school bus to arrive.

One of the other boys at the stop asked me if I noticed what was new.

“Uh, let’s see… your jacket, and your socks!”

“That’s right! Aren’t they awesome?” He yanked off a shoe to give me the full awesome experience. He went on to say that he’d gotten them at the Nike plant. His older brother chimed in that their dad works there and so they get a great discount.

“That is a great deal,” I said, marveling.

Soon we were joined by another neighbor and her daughters, then another. Across the street, another neighbor stood on the corner carefully raking bright magenta and orange leaves from a planter and on to the sidewalk. I called across the street to jokingly ask whether he’d rake my leaves too.

“Well, there’s a waiting list,” he called back.

I laughed.

Even as recently as last spring, we did not really know any of these people. Though they have been our neighbors for the last eight years, we had not met a single one of them.

That changed this summer, because of my wife’s open heart surgery.

Ever since we moved here in 2003, the only people on our street that we knew on a first-name basis lived across the street from us. We had a nodding acquaintance with neighbors next door, and might even spare a wave to the others, but that was the extent of our relationship. Pitiful.

All these years, we lived pretty much alone, though we were right in the midst of so many other lives.

And then, we started walking.

Walking was absolutely necessary for my wife’s recovery. The doctor told her she needed to keep moving and get strong, and walking was the best way.

It was slow going at first: we’d shuffle up the street and slowly amble around one cul-de-sac. On the sidewalks, the kids riding their bikes or doing chalk drawings or tossing a basketball through a hoop and the parents chatting amongst themselves would watch us pass by, but  would say nothing.

Every day we walked. My wife would walk faster and faster, and we’d travel farther and farther. Some times, we’d hear a comment come back: “You’re moving faster! Good work!”

On one pass, a curious neighbor (the leaf-raker at the start of the story) finally asked what the deal was: why did we walk by every night? We engaged in conversation, learned each other’s names and discovered that he was retired from teaching at a local university.

We soon met another neighbor, then another, and another… they all started to count on seeing us walking past every evening.

We discovered that Michael’s friend “J” lived on one of the cul-de-sacs on our route, which led to conversations with his parents and eventually led to Michael and J learning to ride their bikes as well as forming a great friendship.

Our presence, our connection to the neighbors near Michael’s bus stop made it easy for Michael to fit in to the group of kids who regularly ride the bus to school, and made riding the bus something to look forward to every morning.

This led to bringing those kids down to our street on Halloween night, now that they knew who Michael is and had expectations of seeing a really spooky place down a road they had ignored for all these years.

Which leads us to where we are now, fully engaged in friendly connections with the neighbors, something I hadn’t ever expected in this area, and something I hadn’t really enjoyed for probably 40 years, when I was growing up on that little street in Carmichael, where we were all so close.

I’m really looking forward to next Summer, when we can all be outside again, forging deeper connections.

If I could just get one single concept through the skulls of teenagers, specifically the ones that are currently residing under my roof, it is this: There Is More To Learn.

One of my kids is currently going through some troubles at school, in which she believes she is not doing well because A) The teacher is not doing a good job at explaining things and so everyone in the class is failing, B) it’s so boring and when am I ever going to need to know this stuff later, and C) I’m no good at it.

Thus, with great drama, the wall is thrown up along with the hands in utter resignation, and she issues forth the cry: “I Give Up.”

Now, the fact that she doesn’t get enough sleep couldn’t be the problem.

And certainly her study habits (and by “study habits” I mean her practice of plopping her carcass on the couch after school and remaining there until it’s time to head off to bed) are not at issue.

Nor could it have anything to do with the fact that her diet is horrible.

This particular child has chosen to be a vegetarian. And by that, I mean someone who doesn’t eat anything that might provide nutritive value of any sort, be it animal, vegetable or mineral.

She will eat Cheetos happily, though. And ice cream. And popcorn.

Her daily intake can be summed up in a few sentences. Breakfast consists of air and a declaration that she is late for school. Lunch is a mystery; she doesn’t pack one, and she apparently doesn’t buy anything at school either. I suspect she eats her homework pages, because we occasionally get reports that she hasn’t turned in an assignment. Dinner is whatever the meatless part of the evening’s meal turns out to be, assuming it is something that is A) covered in cheese or B) from a bag with Oroville Redenbacher’s picture on it.

If we dare to point out that she needs to eat protein and perhaps some actual vegetables, she will haughtily report that her diet is fine, and that she knows how to take care of herself.

We could try to explain that her diet has a direct correlation with her ability to perform at school, to sleep well and to think clearly, but we would be shot down before we could finish a sentence. She knows better, you see, because she is a teenager.

And in a sense, I can understand this way of thinking. A teenager is someone who has had enough years and enough growth to see that she isn’t a child any longer and she has passed beyond the childish way of thinking. She has passed beyond childish sorts of ideals and childish sorts of wants. Her universe has expanded greatly, and she has expanded right along with it. She is able to get by in the big world as far as it has presented itself to her. She no longer crawls or toddles, but is walking and running. In her mind, she has reached full steam in all aspects of her existence. What more growth could there be?

I remember very clearly in my life a point where it dawned on me that I did not, in fact, know everything. I realized then that there was a lot that I did not know, and a lot more to learn. It was then I truly started learning.

I wasn’t a teenager any more by that time, though, but was entering my thirties.

So I don’t expect a lot out of my teenagers in this regard. Telling a teenager anything is like spreading seeds on the sidewalk.

But I’m a parent, and thus I persist with the seed spreading, in hopes that eventually one gets through the concrete and reaches the good soil underneath.

I always call when I’m on my way home from work. I call it the “Protocall”, because it would be a serious breach of protocol should I not call (words are my playdoh).

Wednesday night was no exception.

But instead of a delighted spouse, I reached a frustrated wife. A wife who was on her last gram of patience, because once again, the dishwasher quit.

Alert readers will instantly recall that just last year, this same dishwasher quit working, requiring two service calls and a nearly two-week period of hand washing dishes. A period that ended with the aforementioned wife declaring that she was most assuredly not seeing the positive side of the dishwasher’s hiatus, and that she was definitely not cut out for washing dishes by hand on a daily basis.

Also note that this dishwasher was in fact purchased last year.

Fortunately for us, though, I sprung the extra bucks to buy the extended warranty. Which means the repair jobs will be free for the next three years.

Buying that extra protection marks the third truly good decision I’ve made throughout my entire life (for most of the others, the jury’s still out).

The service guy was able to come out yesterday, and he had the replacement part on his truck. A miracle? Yes, I think so.

“So, this dishwasher isn’t that old. And it had this same thing happen just last year,” I pointed out, as “Ed” was wrapping up the job.

“Hmmm.” He said, thoughtfully.

“Is this a common problem with this model?” I asked, leading him to give me the dirt on it.

“No,” he said. “It’s just that it shouldn’t get wet. The water drops over the edge of the counter and gets into the front panel. Or if you squirt cleaner on it, the liquid seeps behind it and messes up the contacts.”

“Oh,” I said. “So, in short, we shouldn’t get the dishwasher wet.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Maybe I’m not seeing the big picture here, but isn’t kind of a sure thing that an appliance that actually flings hot, soapy water around and sits next to the sink in the middle of a kitchen working with food and cleaning supplies, might get a little moist from time to time?”

“Well, it’s not built to take it,” he said.

Ah.

I’ve learned something. Don’t get the dishwasher wet.

Now we know.

About twelve seconds after I woke Michael up this morning, he burst into tears.

He had asked me where his mommy was, and I had to explain that his mom had already left for work, and that meant he’d missed his morning drive.

Michael likes to drive with his mom every morning. He’s been doing it for as many years as I can recall.* On those days when she has to go off to her meetings, her cardio rehab or to work, Michael follows her out to her car, and after she’s had a chance to sit down and get her lunch box and coffee situated, he clambers up on her lap – an increasingly awkward process, Michael being a big seven-and-a-half year old now – and holds on to the steering wheel while she buckles up and puts the car in reverse.

Slowly and carefully she’ll back the car out of the garage and down to the end of the driveway, as I walk along side.

Then she stops the car, and I open the door, scoop him out, and hold him up for one last kiss and hug before she heads off.

It’s a ritual. One that probably won’t last too much longer, for a couple of good reasons: 1) He’s getting to be a bigger and bigger boy. His legs won’t be able to tuck under the steering wheel much longer, and he head will start bumping the passenger compartment ceiling. 2) He’ll eventually reach the stage that all kids do, the one where they turn the corner from mommy-magnet to parentally indifferent, which is the street just before “don’t embarrass me, mom!”. Once he gets there, mom will be lucky if she gets a grunted “bye” from him in the morning. Assuming he’s awake when she goes.

And it’s because this time in his life is fleeting, here today and gone the next, that neither his mom nor I are insistent that he give up his habit, as inconvenient as it sometimes is to all involved (I’m content to give my wife a kiss and a wave from the comfort of the garage, and she is happy to not have to struggle with a 45 pound package of bony elbows and knees while negotiating an aging SUV).

This brings us to the inconsolable sobbing that Michael furnished for this particular morning’s story arc.

“Michael,” I said while selecting his outfit for the day, “I’m sorry you missed her, but she has to leave really early to get to work, and you needed the sleep because you were up so late last night.”

My reasoning, sound as it was, did nothing to mitigate his grief. In fact, it seemed to fuel it.

“Let’s see your Grandma. Maybe she can help,” I said, hoping that Grandma K could make things better. Grandmas are good with things like that.

We wailed our way down stairs to find Grandma in the kitchen, putting away dishes. (Grandmas implicitly take over the dish doing in our home whenever either of them visits. I cannot say I dislike this fact.)

“Michael! What’s wrong?” she asked.

“He missed his momma’s drive this morning,” I explained.

“Oh, that’s so sad.” She stopped what she was doing to give him her full attention. “But you were up so late last night! It’s not good for you to get up so early! And your momma has to go to work…”

She did her best. She gave her most soothing, consoling Grandma voice. Still he was not mollified.

“Maybe you can drive with Sister S,” I suggested, without any seriousness. Sister S doesn’t have a car. And Sister S can’t drive yet.

But as she does sometimes, Sister S tuned into our conversation from the other room, and jumped in:

“Yeah! Michael, if you get ready fast, you can drive with me!” she said, excitedly.

He was hesitant, but started getting dressed.

“Wait a minute…” he said, stopping. “You can’t drive!”

“I know,” she said, “But I can give you a piggie back ride down the driveway!”

That was enough for Michael. He hurriedly dressed and ran over to her. I held her backpack as he jumped up on her back and she grabbed his legs.

“Okay, here we go!” she said, and headed out the door. “Vroom! Vroom! Screeeech!” She made over-the-top fake automobile noises and hustled down the walkway, down the driveway and around in a figure-8 before stopping at the mailbox at the property line.

“There you go! All done!”

“Yay!” he said, and hopped off. I handed his sister her backpack and she waved goodbye, trotting quickly down the sidewalk and off to meet up with her friends.

I scooped a sock-footed but shoeless Michael up and carried him into the house, a transformed boy: he who was recently steeped in regret and loss was now a satisfied, placated boy who was ready and eager to face his day. With a smile.

Some times, sisters can be really great.

* Rabid fans of this site (who, as of this writing have not made themselves known) may recall this story which states that Michael always rides in his car seat when in the car. And this is absolutely true… with the single exception of his morning drive ritual. See, I just don’t count that as “riding” in the normal sense of the word. I should be a politician.

Tuesday was an eventful day.

Michael was tested for a higher class level in his swimming lessons. During his normal class, the director (we kindly refer to her as “The Lunch Lady”* in regard to her booming voice, clipboard and constant patrolling around the edge of the pool during lessons) asked Michael’s instructor to let him go into the deep end to see if he can do the basic freestyle stroke (using his side-breathing skills) all the way across the length of the pool.

While the drill instructor shouted commands at him, he pushed himself all the way across, executing every arm stroke and head turn and leg kick with a precision that would rival that of any professional swimmer. It was one of my proudest moments. He reached the far end, and was drilled back again. His mom and I practically glowed with excitement and pride, seeing our little boy perform so amazingly.

After jotting a few notes down on her clipboard, the director came over to us and suggested that we move him up to the level 3 class. After class, while his mom worked out the logistics for getting him into the higher level, I walked Michael to the showers and told him how proud we are of him. He chalked his performance up to the goggles they let him wear (up to now, we’ve avoided them).
“I can see, daddy! I can see everything! Now I know where to go!” He said, excitedly. Evidently it’s been his underwater myopia that’s been holding him back. Well if that’s all it takes for him to get a shot at the Olympic gold, then goggles he shall have.

He opted to ride home with his mom after class. We often take separate cars as his mom drives to swimming lessons straight from her work, while I am driving him there from home. It’s a necessary evil, but it allows us both to be there.

It was dark and rainy. I was hungry; we usually don’t have dinner before we go, since mom isn’t there and there isn’t enough time between when I get home from work and when we have to dash off to the pool.

Halfway home. I was following my wife’s car as best I could, allowing only one car between us. Slowing to a stop now. Boy that roast is going to taste —

WHAM!

Out of nowhere, a hard impact from behind. My car lunges forward as my glasses fly off my face and onto the floor, along with my hands-free phone speaker. After a moment, I gather my wits and turn on my hazard lights. The phone rings. From somewhere on the floor, my wife’s anxious voice cries out: “Honey? Are you okay? What happened?”

“I got hit. I don’t know. I think I’m okay…” I fumble around for the thing in the darkness, feeling the lenses of my glasses at my feet.

“Are you sure? Did you check? I’m pulling around and we’re going to park…”

“Okay. I have to call 911. I gotta go,” I said.

“Okay. Love you!”

I press the numbers into the phone and wait. Nothing happens. Oh yeah, the “talk” button…

“If this is an emergency, say ‘emergency’” the automated voice instructs.

“EMERGENCY!” I say, rather annoyed. Why else would I call? Weather forecast? Potato baking instructions? Maybe they do that to prevent the inadvertent butt-dial from causing havoc at the 911 dispatch. Still, it might prove troublesome if one was calling to report a home invasion or something.

Finally a human comes on the line, and I provide as much detail as I can, while exiting the car and looking around. My van’s back end is pushed in, the bumper torn, the rear quarter panels bulging slightly. The tail light lenses are intact, as is the rear window.

The car behind me is utterly devastated; crumpled like a cheap beer can. Glass, plastic and odd nuts and bolts and brackets are scattered around on the pavement. The hood is pancaked toward the passenger compartment, the engine is sitting on the ground. The front wheels are canted at different angles. His car will not drive again.

There’s no sign of the driver, though his airbag has already inflated and deflated. A passing motorist stops to set out flares. That done, she smiles and leaves. I’m still wrapping my brain around the whole incident.

Then, the other driver walks up. He’d been setting flares further back behind the scene.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I think so. What happened?” I asked him.

“I just looked down for a second. I just didn’t see you there.”

“Not a good night for looking down. It’s dark, it’s rainy, it’s hard to see even when you are paying good attention,” I returned.

“Is there anyone else in the van?”

“No, just me.”

“When I saw the stickers on the back of your car, my heart just sunk.”

We have the little happy family stickers on the back window; they’re all wearing mouse ears. We were determined to have Disneyland “bling” for the car after our last trip. He probably assumed that I had my wife and four kids in the car with me.

Pretty soon Michael and his mom showed up on the other side of the street. The fire engines quickly appeared, followed by a police car. I carefully crossed traffic to stand by my wife.

“Are you okay?” she asked again.

“Yeah. Nothing broken I think. I feel all right.”

“Oooh, your head! You got cut!”

I only saw later that I had a nifty cut on my forehead. Evidently during the impact it was my skull that had knocked the Bluetooth device off the visor. There was just a bit of blood; enough to prove that trauma had occurred but not enough to qualify as “gore”.

The firemen checked out the car for leaking fluids and potential explosions, then started cleaning up the road. They suggested I pull my van into a parking lot nearby, which I did. My van was still drivable, and despite the fact that the rear end was pushed in and the bumper torn up, all the lights worked just fine.

They managed to push the other driver’s car into the same parking lot, and the police officer pulled in next to us.

I asked my wife “Are you sure you don’t want to just go? I’ll be okay. You both need to eat dinner.”
“No, I want to stay,” she said. Michael was not complaining. He was mesmerized by all of the flashing lights on the various emergency vehicles.

So the other driver and I stood in the rain. I opened up the van’s battered tail gate and offered the other driver a dry spot to sit.

He thanked me for being so kind.

“It’s okay. I’m sure you weren’t looking to run into any one tonight,” I said.

“True. This isn’t the best night.”

“But statistically speaking, you probably won’t be in any more accidents for a while,” I offered.

The officer took down our info, listened to our stories, and cited the other driver for inattentive driving.

“When there’s a crash – and we always call it a “crash” and not an accident; crashes are preventable – we have to issue a citation. It was clearly caused by your inattentive driving,” she said. “We all do it. But this time it caused a lot of damage. You’re lucky it wasn’t a lot worse,” she said, handing him the ticket.

I felt bad for the poor guy. His car was totaled, he probably will end up paying off a huge deductable while not driving for a while, and he has to appear in court to pay a fine.

It’s a lesson for him. A very hard lesson. How one little careless moment can have such an impact. One that could have a very lasting set of consequences.

Hopefully he’ll learn from it.

My wife went back to work today.

Since her surgery in June, she’s been out on disability. Tearing into someone’s chest cavity to work on their heart is pretty traumatic to their muscles and bones, which need time to heal.

She’s been doing physical therapy, walking every day, going to a special cardiac rehabilitation exercise course twice a week and otherwise being careful about what she picks up. She’s been working hard to prepare herself for her return to work, though for quite a while we basked in the luxury of knowing that it would be some time before she had to go back.

But time continued its relentless march, remorseless and indifferent, to drag us to this day. It was strange going through the old motions, getting up at 4:30 and helping her get ready, making breakfast and coffee and being sure she had her cell phone and work badge and everything. It was almost surreal waving goodbye as she drove off into the pinkness of the approaching dawn.

I got a message from her that she got to work on time, was able to park in a good spot, and managed to perform her first procedure without any difficulty.

Michael asked where his mommy was. I had to explain that she was at work. I don’t think he grasped what I meant, since Mommy hadn’t been to work for the whole summer. Just the same, he got his morning shower, got dressed, had breakfast and we played just a bit before I hauled him up to the bus stop.

I’m not sure why, but it’s almost like I have to drag him there. He shuffles his feet and hangs back four paces unless I have a good grip on his arm and can scoot him along.

We aren’t on great terms with the rest of the kids at the bus stop, the ones from the twin cul-de-sacs where Michael’s bike-riding friend lives. It feels a bit like we’re interlopers. And though there is no explicit exclusion, I can’t help but notice that they’ve all got little conversations going on amongst themselves, with their backs to Michael. And they seem to be very protective of “The Line”. This is the queue that forms for getting on the bus. The first to arrive at the stop in the morning begins the line, and each successive kid takes his or her place behind the last one. On our first visit to the bus stop this year, we made the grand faux pas of trying to place Michael at the front of the line, being utterly unfamiliar with the protocol. Eventually the bus arrives, and the kids get on. They all sit in the same seats every time, so the point of maintaining the sanctity of the line is lost as soon as they reach the first step of the bus. I explained to Michael that it doesn’t matter whether he’s first or last in line: he’ll get on the bus, and he’ll get the seat he likes either way.

From all points of the compass, the less punctual kids come running. One of these is Michael’s friend J. The bus driver is kind and waits, lights flashing and doors open, for the stragglers. Eventually the doors shut and the bus rumbles down the street, a grey cloud of half-spent Diesel wafting behind. Michael waves at me from inside, making sure to make eye contact.

As I head back home, I happen to glance down the street at another house, where Michael’s friend E lives. I smile a little thinking of his recent play date there. She had been in his class last year, and we only discovered at the end of the school year that she lives two doors down on the other side of the street. He had been clamoring to play with her all summer, but every time we stopped by, nobody was home. When we rang the bell on Sunday, though, it was a different story. E’s dad came to the door, and was delighted to see that E had a friend calling. He ushered us around the back of the house, where we discovered a small, lush forest glen, complete with tall trees and trailing vines, a verdant arbor covering a cozy patio and a two-story playhouse. Michael was instantly enchanted, and immediately entered the play house.

Then E came running out, a huge smile on her face. She ran into the play house and disappeared. Her dad said “Funny thing, she was so crabby a few minutes ago, but when I said Michael was here, her mood changed completely.”

Michael had established another neighborhood friendship. It only took all summer to get it started.

But summer is over, and we’re now fully back to the compulsory aspects of our life.

There’s still a bit more sunny and warm days ahead though… I hope we can make the best of them.

I have mentioned before that I really hate plumbing.

In particular, I detest toilets.

Of course, I’d never suggest doing without. It isn’t the utility of the toilet I dislike, it’s that they fail. They fail in varied, annoying and often expensive ways.

It was the failure of Breezy (for those who don’t recall: it’s in the main bathroom upstairs) that set me off. Or rather, prompted my dear wife to apply the goad of wifely urgency:

“That toilet keeps flushing. You need to fix it.” That’s all I needed, just a word. Re-applied periodically, over the course of two or three months. Then I get to action. Because I am a man of it.

Since I’d had it with all three of our toilets, I decided I was going to go all out and replace their innards completely: rip out the old float valves, overflow tubes, flush levers, flapper valves, seats and bolts. All of it.

Because enough’s enough.

My wife and I chose a Saturday to procure said toilet guts at the local Home Depot. In an uncharacteristic turn, there were several helpful associates there in their bright orange aprons ready to help us find what we needed.

“Toilet parts?” we asked. The hard-boiled guy who looked a little like Willem Dafoe’s brother spoke first.

“You’re right close by. Next aisle over,” he said, and walked with us to where the gleaming toilet parts hung in blister packs as high as could be seen without neck strain.

“Excellent,” I said.

“What do you need?”

“Well, I was tihnking about replacing everything.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Are they pretty old?”

“Over eight years,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s the best thing to do. Myself, I like to replace ‘em all out every two years or so,” he said, his tone taking on the delight of a man looking forward to his next fishing trip.

“Well, guess that means we’re due, then.” I countered, not sharing the anticipatory glee by any measure.

I grabbed three sets and steered our cart toward the checkout line.

After dispatching some other distractions at home, I started in on The Great Toilet Recovery Act of 2011.

My first victim: Breezy.

These “total gut replacement” kits require one to remove the tank from the toilet. Luckily, they come with new gaskets and bolts, which means that if it leaks once you’re done, it’s not their fault.

So let’s get to it! First step: turn off the water supply and remove the supply hose. Suddenly remember that you need a towel underneath to catch the drips. Okay, done. Now, flush the toilet to empty the tank. No problem. Next, loosen the bolts securing the tank. Wisely remember before getting too far that you should have a bucket handy to catch the inevitable cascade of water that will pour forth from the bolt hole. Loosen the bolt, watch in frustration as the water clings to the porcelain surfaces surrounding the hole to form a maddeningly perfect dispersal pattern that avoids the carefully positioned bucket entirely, showering the bathroom floor.

Mop up the flood with your second towel.

Finish with the bolts, then remove the inlet valve assembly. Observe a fresh new waterfall soaking the other side of the toilet and marvel that there could still be water left in the tank after the last deluge.

Mop up the floor with third towel.

Inspect tank for any additional pockets of water that may be hidden. Satisfied that the tank is not going to suddenly spout forth from another hidden spring, it’s time to remove the overflow valve and flapper seat assembly. This requires use of the largest wrench you have. Open the jaws as wide as they’ll go to fit the massive nut holding the assembly in place. When you find that even this is not wide enough, proceed to wield the wrench according to it’s alternate use, repeatedly bashing the side of the nut to loosen it enough to turn by hand.

With the old assembly removed, scrape any remaining gasket off the tank, both inside and out. Make a disgusted face at the deteriorated, gloppy, foul condition of the old gasket and wonder whether it had contact with anything unsavory. Wash hands thoroughly.

With the tank thoroughly stripped of its workings, it’s time to get the new parts ready for installation. Remove them from their packaging, scoff derisively at the instructions, and set them aside. How hard could it be?

Let’s see: flapper valve and overflow tube assembly, inlet valve assembly, package of three bolts and nuts, mysterious plastic arm with foreign-looking double gasket and large plastic nut, long black flexible tube, small cup.

Hear wife’s voice in your head: “Read the instructions.”

Fine.

Ah: the mysterious double gasket is actually two gaskets cleverly formed together, and the plastic arm is the bracket for the fill tube. No problem.

Reading on: one must cut the overflow tube to be one inch lower than the critical line on the inlet valve. Given the height of the tank and the inlet valve, that would mean I’d need to hack off about five inches of the tube, which would put the fill line of the toilet at about three inches depth. Hmmmm. It also says that it is CRITICAL that the tube be NO MORE than ONE INCH LOWER than the CRITICAL LINE because this is PLUMBING CODE. Clearly, I will be in violation if I do not cut the tube. The toilet police will undoubtedly be alerted upon its first flush. We don’t want that.

Inspecting the new parts more closely, I see that the inlet valve can be adjusted. Ah, that’s the key. The instructions mention adjusting the inlet valve. Set the valve to maximum height for the tank, and install it. Next, measure the overflow tube and make a mark where it should be cut. In this case, two inches down. Okay.

Take a trip down to the garage, scare up a hacksaw and make the cut.

Back upstairs and install the overflow tube and flapper valve assembly. This assembly requires use of the very large nut, the one that is wider than any wrench you could ever legally own. Happily, the instructions are very clear in stating that the nut must be secured HAND TIGHT ONLY! Good; hands I have. I keep them with me at all times.

With this secure, I’m nearly done.

Then I notice that the flapper valve itself has an adjustment. Really? I’ve never seen this before. The instructions mention that this adjustment is for flush volume. Well, let’s go for the gusto here: set it to max!

Now install the new flush arm, and cut the chain to length. Be sure that the chain is long enough to let the flapper valve seat properly, but not so long that the flush arm has to actually exit the top of the tank in order to work. Most people are keen on having a solid lid on their toilet tank, and the lid will hamper the flush arm’s progress if the chain is too long.

Finally, secure the fill tube on the overflow tube with the bracket. The instructions helpfully explain that if the fill tube is inserted down into the overflow tube (as is commonly done), then it could siphon water back out, which makes the toilet re-fill periodically. This is that mysterious “ghost flush” that some toilets (including Breezy here) will do from time to time.

Now that everything’s installed, it’s time to put the toilet tank back on the bowl.

Make sure everything’s debris-free, and seat the tank on the bowl securely. Insert both bolts with gasket from the inside, and secure from underneath with the metal washer and nut. Use a flat-bladed screwdriver that has a head that is as large as possible; preferably the size of a crowbar’s wide end. Hold the nut securely from beneath to keep it from slipping. Doing both at the same time is easiest if you are an Orangutan, as it requires an arm span of eight feet. If you have opposable thumbs on your feet as well, this is the time to employ them.

With the tank in place and secure, it’s time to reconnect the water supply.

Remember, hand tight only!

If all goes well (and it actually did in my case), you can turn on the water supply now.

Check for leaks. Tighten things a smidge if there are any leaks… but don’t overtighten.

Try a test flush. Notice that the water level, upon refilling, comes to within one millimeter of the top of the overflow tube, send prayer of thanks to God that you didn’t cut off more of that tube.

All done! And it works! No more mysterious flush/refill cycles, no more jiggling the handle, no more manual re-seating of the flapper valve.

Oh – and while we’re at it, let’s install the new Never Have To Adjust Or Replace It toilet seat. Now we won’t be able to really call this one Breezy any more…

So: one down, two to go.

But not today. Now, it’s time to take some Ibuprofen and rest on your laurels for a while.

After two and half hours of work, I headed downstairs, schlepping four sopping wet towels, a bucket of scum water, a tool box and a box full of old toilet guts, no doubt looking like I lost the battle. My wife was on her way up.

She took a look at me and smiled. “I’m glad you’re the husband,” she said.

Me too.