When I was young, I used to help my dad fix everything.
Broken leg on the table? We fixed it. Cracked mortar in the wall? We fixed it.
Leaky hose in the back of the toilet tank? We made it worse and, after six
trips to Home Depot and lots of muffled swearing, we called a plumbing
professional who gave me a lollipop and gave my dad a bill that led to
unmuffled swearing.
I look back on some of those wonderful memories all the
time. I remember being the greatest helper in the world and, if it weren’t for
me, I assume my dad would have never been able to fix anything on his own. I
was just that awesome.
Twenty-some-odd-years later, as a Dad, I’m now in charge of
the fixes around my house. I also am lucky enough to employ several of my own
little helpers who are eager to lend a hand in any way they can, especially if
it involves hammering on my ankles. They are excited and ready to do anything I
ask. “Bring me the screwdriver,” I say. “Yes Dad!” they say, and within
seconds, one of them enthusiastically hands me a wrench.
So when I sat down to replace the bathroom faucet, it wasn’t
just me, it was me and my team. My HandyKlems Team. We were a team built on
determination, intelligence and Pepperidge Farm Goldfish. We could tackle any
project at hand, so long as wasn’t during naptime. And, other than the
occasional pee break, we’d spend every minute working until the job was
complete (mainly because the iPad was out of battery). We were ready.
We stared at that leaky faucet for awhile, trying to diagnose
the problem.
Me: “I think the washer seal has gone bad. What do you
think?”
Helper #1: “I think I should hammer it.”
Helper #2: “I think we should hit it with this thing.”
(Points to crowbar.)
Helper #3: “My favorite color is green.”
After careful inspection, the vote was 4-1 in favor of
hitting it with something. Unfortunately our house is not a democracy, so my
wife’s vote overruled ours and we were forced to replace the faucet instead.
I climbed under sink, squeezing into a bathroom cabinet the
size of a football helmet, slowly unbolting everything that needed unbolting.
My team sat around me, one of them watching my every move, one of them trying
to squeeze in the cabinet with me and one of them standing on my legs as if they
were a step stool.
“Can I help?” says the one squeezed into the cabinet with me.
“Not right now, sweetie. I promise I’ll let you help in a
minute.”
She “helps” anyway by twisting the shut-off valve and
letting water spray all over us.
“Hey, why does she get to help?” asks Helper #2 who was
watching my every move but is now, for no particular reason, unrolling the
toilet paper and wrapping it around her arm.
“Turning on the water when the valve is unhooked is not helping.”
Just then, Helper #3 decides to jump, landing back on my
shins, ripping out every hair follicle on my legs with the rubbery sole of her
size 5 shoes. I scream. She screams. I hit my head in a pipe. Helper #1, now
leaning on my throat, manages to get her hand caught in one of the holes now
vacated by the faucet.
It’s believed that Winston Churchill coined the phrase, “I
have nothing to offer but blood, sweat and tears,” but this is not true. The
phrase was first uttered by a Dad who was trying to fix the bathroom
sink with his kids.
Did we eventually fix the faucet? Sure. Were the kids
excited to use the new, fun, fancy faucet? Not really. They were too busy pretending
the tools were telephones. But after the struggle I went through and the battle
wounds I suffered, I felt mighty proud of that faucet. Team HandyKlems came
through in the clutch once again. My dad would have been proud.
“You know I want you to replace the other bathroom faucet
too, right?” my wife said.
Unmuffled swearing commence.
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