And Don’t Let The Fridge Get Cold

Posted on November 11, 2011 | 5 Comments

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.

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Posted in frustration, life, moments

Halloween

Posted on November 4, 2011 | 2 Comments

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays, because I can really go to town on creativity, and give the neighbors a good show.

Here’s what we did for Halloween this year. (Ten points to anyone who can figure out why I named the haunt “Knochen Wohnhaus”)

 

Things to note:

1) Epic Chandelier in the entryway, constructed of spare junk found at Goodwill

2) Auntie Drizelda the ghost in the living room window. This was hard to see; I don’t think anyone actually noticed her unless they knew about it ahead of time.

3) The graveyard containing two ghouls – Sister S and her friend T, who, after trick-or-treating themselves, decided it would be fun to scare people by being weird. It always works for me.

4) Leota the upstairs ghost. Simple, effective, creepy. Highlighted by two black lights.

5) Lack of fog. I had a new fog machine, and it works great – but no timer, so it wouldn’t emit fog unless I actually pressed a button, which I rarely did, because I was out with Michael and his mommy most of the night trick-or-treating.

6) The creepy background sounds, a compilation of scary sounds I’ve picked up over the years, and a few made by Michael and his sister.

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Posted in fun, holiday

Morning Drive

Posted on October 27, 2011 | 3 Comments

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.

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Posted in family, life, memories, michael, moments, teens

Michael’s Parenting Tips

Posted on October 25, 2011 | 2 Comments

Monday night’s swimming lesson did not go well. Michael spent most of his time goofing off with his classmates and making some very bad choices, his antics ultimately escalating into downright bad behavior.

I chided him after he toweled off and dressed.

“Michael, I am very disappointed in your behavior. You did not show kindness to your friends, and chose to misbehave. So when we get home, it’s going to be jammies and off to bed.”

Michael was contrite, and understandably glum on the trip home.

Eventually he broke his silence with one of his typical statements, which is a question that is couched in the form of a negative answer:

“Man. Now I can’t go through the ‘secret passage’.” (Editor’s note: the ‘secret passage’ is a route to our home that winds through an older section of the neighborhood, rather than taking the main roads. It seems mysterious and untraveled, thus he has labeled it as a secret passage.) Michael has this idea that if he states something negatively, his parents will see his plight and will swoop in and make things right. In this case, by saying that he can’t, he figures either his mom or I might say “Why, of course you can!” Thus avoiding the pain of actually making supplication to the higher authority and risking disappointment.

This was confirmed when I pointed out that I was wise to what he was doing.

“Michael, you don’t know unless you ask,” I said.

“Yeah…”

“So, are you going to ask me if we can go that way?”

“But you’ll say ‘no’.”

“How can you be sure if you don’t ask?”

“I’m worried…”

“What’s the worst thing he could say? You ask and you may get a ‘yes’ and you may get a ‘no’. The worst he can possibly say is ‘no’, right?” His mom said, jumping in to encourage him.

“Uh…”

“Michael, just ask,” I said.

“Could we go through the ‘secret passage?’” he asked, tentatively.

“Why, yes, we can!” I said, happily, and turned down the street into the seldom-used entrance to our neighborhood.

“See, Michael?” his mom asked.

“Yes!” he said.

“Any good parent is only going to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to a question like that. That’s the worst they would do,” his mom continued.

He thought about that for a long time.

Then he provided this observation:

“You know what a really bad parent would do?”

“No, what?” we asked.

“If the kid asked to go through the ‘secret passage’, and the parent was mad, and he had a gun, then he’d turn around and shoot the kid. That would be a really bad parent,” he said.

“Yeah, that would be a bad parent, for sure,” I said.

He knows how to set the bar low. I must be an excellent parent.

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Posted in inscrutable, michael, moments

Impact

Posted on October 14, 2011 | 6 Comments

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.

* Note: no offense is implied or intended to any lunch ladies, real or fictional.

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Posted in dad, life, moments, stress

A Different Perspective

Posted on October 4, 2011 | 3 Comments

“Mommy?”

“Yes?”

“Can I play with your iPod?”

“Yes, but please be careful with it.”

“I will.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I dunno, just stuff…”

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Posted in inscrutable, michael, moments

I Love Technology

Posted on September 23, 2011 | 5 Comments

Not too long ago, at my place of employment, the powers that be decided that we shall all have new telephones.

VOIP telephones. That is, phones that use the internet for transmission and reception of voice. The idea is that these new phones can do all sorts of things the old technology can’t do.

Personally, I was good with the old technology. There’s a lot to be said for the old technology. It worked. It was solid and reliable. It was made of iron and copper and Bakelite and cloth and it was substantial. I have a few of those old phones at home in my collection; they would have made a great weapon against, say, a would-be home invader. Try clobbering a burglar with a modern portable phone and see which of the two collapse.

And they didn’t require a PIN. A Personal Identification Number. For accessing one’s voice mail or configuring the phone.

These new VOIP phones need a PIN.

Really? Do I really need that much protection? Am I really in danger of some malicious entity sneaking in to my office and checking my voicemail? Or worse, changing the default menu language? Just picture the evil genius at work: “Bwah ha ha! I shall modify his outgoing message! With that, I shall conquer all!”

So I live with a phone that requires a PIN.

Only, I don’t know what the PIN is.

I don’t think I ever did. Since they announced the new phone roll-out, there had been emails. Lots of emails. Warning of the impending phone upgrade. For several weeks.

From previous experience, I know not to delete these emails. I have a special folder for saving corporate emails like this.

So when I got into a situation recently where I actually needed my pin to get into the phone’s highly complex inner workings, I could not find it. I searched these emails, looking for keywords such as “phone” and “voip” and “pin” and “how the heck do I check my voice messages”. I did find emails containing the advance warnings, emails providing the user’s guide, emails providing information about who to contact for further info.

But no PIN.

The reason I needed my pin was to get into the voicemail system and hopefully extinguish the phone’s RED WARNING LIGHT. It had been on for several days. I had thought this meant that I had a voicemail I hadn’t listened to, because usually after I get a voicemail and it comes on, then I listen to the voicemail and the light goes off.

You’re probably thinking: “If you don’t have your PIN, how do you get your voicemail?”

Good question, you! Because this new technology provides a cool additional feature, which I actually like: it sends voicemails to my email in a playable audio format, so I can listen to them via my laptop. Awesome! (It also has another feature where it attempts to translate the words into print, something it cannot do with any accuracy. My wife loves to play with this feature, leaving messages in which she recites nursury rhymes, songs from the ’80s or speaks in French. The thing tries to translate into meaningful English but gets off in the weeds in no time, leaving me a “preview” of nothing more than gibberish. Some day I may post about that.)

So for the most part, I haven’t needed my phone’s PIN. Everything I really need phone-wise I can get to without it.

Except for this stupid red light that won’t go away.

For three days this light glared at me, warning me of some unknown but obviously very serious electronic danger. The display on the phone merely said “You have voicemail.”

No, I clearly do NOT have voicemail. I have listened to my voicemail (as I recall, it was my wife and Michael, alternately reciting “eeny meeny miny mo” – which came out in the printed preview as “Hey any info tech” in case you’re interested). So Mr. Phone, you are mistaken. Now please put your light out. The end.

Yesterday I’d had enough. I asked our admin about it. She’s the one who knows about all this stuff. The one I go to when there’s an office issue that I cannot resolve.

“How do I find my PIN?” I asked.

“You got an email when they first came out,” she said calmly.

“Uh… I checked all those emails. I didn’t find one.”

“Well, you did.”

Thank you.

“What can I do?”

“Call the support center.”

So I called the support center.

I’m always hesitant to do this. A few years ago, our company decided that it would outsource our support group. We don’t have a support group here in the building anymore. We don’t have a support group in this city, state or country. I believe the support group is either in Mexico or India. Or somewhere between the two. Mexindia maybe.

After waiting on hold for approximately 30 minutes (but not a bad 30 minutes – they had the most soothing, soul-refreshing music on hold that I have ever listened to), a man came on to ask my issue. I don’t remember what he said his name was, but it did not match his accent in the slightest. He might as well have called himself Peggy.

“Vat keean eh du for yu?”

“I don’t know my PIN.”

“Vat Peen?”

“The one for my phone.”

“Chu min, for accessing voicemel or menu options or vat?”

“Voicemail, I guess. Whatever it’s asking for when I log in. I need to turn off the red light.”

“Oh! De red light ees on! Is probably error messuch.”

“Error message? It says I have voicemail.”

“Nuh, nuh. Eees error messuch. Yu can cleer dees by dihulink vun vun vun.”

“Okay…”

“Chust put me on hold, heng up und dihul vun vun vun. Den get me back on und let me know.”

“Okay.” I press the hold button, start a new call, and dial “1 1 1″

Bink! The light goes out. Hurray! No more spurious alarm!

After pressing a few more buttons, I got the guy back on line.

“Okay, that worked! The red light is off!”

“Gret. Dat cleerd out duh error messuch. Is der enyting else I kun help chu vit?”

“No, that’s all,” I said.

“Okay. Tank chu for callink!”

Click.

And that was it.

The error light is out! I can get on with my day, free from the accusatory red glare.

But I still don’t know my PIN. Probably just as well.

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Posted in dad, frustration, moments

Back to Work

Posted on September 13, 2011 | 6 Comments

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.

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Posted in family, life, memories, michael, ponderings

Man’s Work

Posted on August 31, 2011 | 3 Comments

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.

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Posted in family, frustration, life, memories

Giving Space

Posted on August 8, 2011 | 4 Comments

Raising children is not for the timid. I don’t think any parent would dispute that.

It is also not for those who are unwilling to learn and grow in order to be a better parent. As a dad, I know that I have a lot of room for improvement, and Michael is giving me plenty of opportunity for that.

In light of that, I’ve discovered that one annoying tendency I have is removing Michael’s options.

When Michael is faced with a choice and I know he’s going to make a bad one, my usual move is to step in and choose for him to prevent him from making a mistake. For example: I’ll let him know it’s bedtime in five minutes, then one minute, and then now. If he doesn’t come with me, I’ll just go pick him up and haul him off rather than letting him know that he has a choice to make: behave, or not – and each comes with consequences. Or when he’s playing with something that belongs to a sister, rather than ask him to put it down and giving him the space to make a good decision, I’ll just take it away.
While this does save the outcome of the immediate, it is actually not helpful. I would go so far as to say it’s harmful.

He needs to be able to choose. He needs to have the opportunity to choose and to learn from the outcome of his choice. When I take that choice away from him, I also take away the learning. He doesn’t develop the pathways in his brain that help him learn from his mistakes, and thus he can’t grow effectively in that regard.

So what I am having to learn at my advanced age is to stand back and allow some things to proceed, even if I know the outcome will not be pretty. Of course I’ll be sure to prevent injury to life and limb: in those times I’ll step in and guide. This is a tough thing to learn. very tough.

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Posted in dad, frustration, life, parenting