How Handiwork Can Bring Dads and Daughters Closer Together

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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Saying Goodbye Part 2 - My Own First House

Recently I said goodbye to my parents’ house. The same week I had to say goodbye to the only other house I had ever called home—the first house my wife and I purchased together. The Minmor House.

Trying to buy a home with your wife is much like like naming a baby with your wife. After careful discussion, consideration and reading every book there is on the topic, you will, inevitably, lose your mind. She’ll rule out every house you like because it “just doesn’t feel right” or “smells funny” or “reminds her of that jerk she dated in high school.” She’ll veto the house that you love without taking into consideration your practical arguments like “it’s really cheap” and paternal instincts like “In this house I could envision myself raising a finely groomed mustache.”

So when we stumbled upon our two-story house in St. Bernard, we decided to buy it because—well, it depends who you ask. My wife will tell you we bought it because she was tired of looking at houses and this one “didn’t suck that bad.” If you asked me, I’d tell you we bought it because my wife passed on a nicer house that, in her words, “lacked character,” which is code for “looks like every other cookie-cutter house.” (Keep in mind it’s also code for “has two-car garage,” which should always trump “character.”)

Either way, it clearly wasn’t our dream house when we first moved it. It needed fresh coats of paint. It lived behind overgrown bushes. Only half the windows worked. It had one of those old, giant, metal antenna’s sticking out from the roof like the mast of an old pirate ship. The electrical outlets had only two-prongs, a metaphor for a house that didn’t want to adapt to the 21st century.

Moving in felt like taking over 0-16 football team and being asked to mold it into a playoff contender. And we did just that. We ripped up wallpaper and laid down carpet. We re-glazed tile and replaced all light fixtures. We reseeded bald spots with grass and planted beautiful flowers in order to fool our new neighbors into thinking that we were professional horticulturalists (something they’d wise up to over the next eight years when I’d routinely cut our grass two weeks later than I should).

The Minmor House will forever be known to me as the home where I started my family. My family. It is the first home our daughters ever knew, as we brought each one of them home from the hospital and proceeded not to sleep for the next 6 months. I can remember the spot where Ella crawled for the very first time, determined to get the TV remote like she was Indiana Jones in pursuit of the grail. I remember the time I spent hours with Anna looking under the dresser because she was convinced SpongeBob was under there—and she was right! I remember the exhaustion I felt trying to keep up with Mia, chasing her around our circular first floor as she knocked over everything in her way.

This didn’t start out as our dream house, but over time it became the house that made all our dreams come true. And unlike my parents’ house where we were forced to say goodbye, we were choosing to say goodbye to the Minmor House in an “It’s not you, it’s us” kind of a way.

Dear Minmor House,

It’s not you, it’s us. You’ve been loving and caring. You’ve forgiven us for tracking softball field mud across your floors and shooting baby vomit on your walls. You’ve worked hard to make this work, and I’m forever grateful for that.

But we’re to a point in our lives now where we need more. We need another bedroom. We need a room where our toys can live freely and are less likely to puncture our feet. We need two full bathrooms so that we (my wife and daughters) don’t need four hours to get ready for events and can do it in the reasonable time of “under two.” Most important, we need a house that has kids on the street—and that’s just something you can’t fake, no matter how hard you try.

We will miss you dearly, but it’s time to move on. In the words of the future Rock and Roll Hall of Fame rock legends Fall Out Boy, Thnks Fr Th Mmrs.

Team Klems

OK, so I didn’t actually leave a note (mainly because I had already packed up all the pens into moving boxes), but I did walk around to each room in the house and said goodbye. I had my middle daughter Anna with me as we made our final trip moving stuff out of the house. I carried her around from room to room, having trouble letting go—of the house, of her. I couldn’t help but remember all the laughter and smiles we’d had in that house. And, for some reason, that brought on tears. When Anna asked me why I was crying I said, “I’m going to miss this place.”

She leaned in and gave me a big hug. It was the best farewell hug I could have ever imagined.

“Dad?”

“Yes sweetheart,” I said as I wiped tears from my eyes.

“It’s time to go.”

And she was right. Nevermind that she was too young to appreciate the moment. Nevermind that her mature comment had less to do with her astute intuition and more with her need to pee really, really badly. It was time for us to go and to start the next chapter in our lives, the two-car-garage chapter in our lives.

But I’ll always take the memories of the Minmor House with me, wherever I go. After all, any house can be your dream house so long as it’s filled with people you love.

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Saying Goodbye Part 1 - My Parents' House

I’ve lived in many buildings over the course of my life. I set up shop in the Big Apple for one glorious summer and had a nice run in the Windy City (even won two softball championships there—go T-Hawks!). Before that, I spent four of the greatest years roaming the campus of Ohio University, where the marching band is more popular than the football team and Halloween is holier than Christmas.

But there are only two places I’ve ever really called home. And in the course of a week, I had to say goodbye to both.

Saying Goodbye to My Parents’ House

From the time I was an infant to the time I left for college, I only lived in one house—my parents’ house on Quebec Road. The house was small and didn’t have air conditioning, but it had a lot of heart (which is code for one bathroom). I can remember bringing my sister home from the hospital, a proud big brother wanting to hug and to love her. That's why I picked her up from her crib, set her on our couch and propped her up with a pillow 3 times her size. My parents were certainly terrified impressed.

Of course, she returned the favor years later when she drew along our stairwell wall with red crayon and, as our parents asked who was to blame, pointed the finger at me (forgetting that the red crayon was still in her other hand).

My parents' house is also where my grandparents babysat my sister and me all the time. We’d drive my grandma crazy because she’d put us to bed and say, “I don’t want to hear a peep!”—to which my sister and I would say “Peep!” (and giggle) for the next 10 minutes.

It's the house where I learned to ride a bike and where I started growing chest hair. It’s where I struggled to find my identity. It's where my style changed from wearing everything as a cape ... to jams and chucks ... to overalls with one strap undone and Air Jordans ... to wearing my clothes Totally Krossed Out ... to layering on the flannel and corduroy pants and growing my hair shaggy long ... to slapping on the punk-rock high waters, chain-wallet and dying my hair bright orange.

It’s where in grade school I sat on our porch every afternoon, waiting impatiently for my dad to make his way down the hill from the bus stop after work so I could greet him with a hug. It’s also where in high school my dad sat on the couch every weekend evening, waiting impatiently for me to get home by curfew to make sure I was safe.

That house is where my mom taught me how to read and write, and where she helped me write my first short story about a planet named Crouton in the Galaxy of Salad. It’s also where I showed her my tattoo for the first time and gave her a heart attack.

And it’s at that house where my wife Brittany and I announced that we were giving my parents what they always wanted: a grandchild (which gave my mom a second heart attack.) Honestly, I’ll never forget the sheer excitement of the scream that came from my mom that day. It may be the moment I miss the most from that home.

As I stood in my old bedroom for the last time, I teared up. I hadn’t lived there in 16 years, yet still it was incredibly hard to say goodbye. I met the family moving in—a family with two young daughters. Both excitedly bounced around “their” new room. Wiping my eyes, I told them how my sister and I used to surprise our parents and rearrange our furniture every once in awhile just for fun. I also pointed out where my cabbage patch doll, Ozzie, used to sleep. I couldn’t believe I was saying farewell, but I was so happy to know that new memories were about to be made.

“Treat this room with love and it will love you back,” I said. “Also, don’t draw on the walls with red crayon and blame each other.”

After two years of clearing out old memories, my parents house has become just that—a memory. But whenever I drive down Quebec Road, I’ll always slow down and wave (with love) as I pass by.

Here is Saying Goodbye Part 2 - My Own First House.

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The Phone Bazinga: Why Kids Get Extra Loud When You’re On the Phone

Before I was a parent, I talked on the phone without any problems at all. I could sit on the couch and quietly discuss with my wife the finer points of a romantic evening. I could pace around the house and talk with my friend Roger, trying to convince him that Cincinnati Reds starting pitcher Bronson Arroyo is not only a dynamite pitcher but is also quite talented off the field too! I could talk—just talk—for however long I wanted. And I could do it in peace and quiet.

It. Was. Glorious.

Now that I’m a parent, those days are long gone thanks to a wonder of the world known as The Phone Bazinga.

The Phone Bazinga is a phenomenon which states that no matter how quiet and calm they currently are, your kids will suddenly be in your face and, most likely, screaming, the moment you make a phone call. It’s 100% true. There’s a secret Bat-Signal that goes off the second you say “Hello,” activating a molecule in kid brains where they lose their minds. 

What’s that? Dad’s on the phone! We must yell at the top of our lungs!

I hear Mom is calling grandma! This is the perfect time to unload all those questions we’ve been saving up the past two hours and ask her right now!

The 5 Principles of The Phone Bazinga:

1. It can happen at your house, in your car, at the store—anywhere your kids can find you.

2. Age doesn’t matter. Whether they are 6 weeks old, 10 months old, 5 years old or in college, they will make noise once that phone is in your hand.

3. You can’t escape it. They follow you around, like a cruel game of Follow the Leader, tattling on “so-and-so” or complaining about “so-and-so” or asking why their mom (your wife) won’t let you grow back your mustache (because she doesn’t like things that are awesome).

4. It can happen at any time. Think you’ve outsmarted them by waiting until nighttime when they are sound asleep? You silly fool. They’ll just pick that time to sleep-fall out of bed or throw up all over the covers.

5. The more important the phone call, the louder they get.

Phone Bazingas make it nearly impossible for parents to communicate, which is why there’s always so much confusion around the house. My wife is always saying that she asked me “five times” to cut the grass. What she fails to mention is that each time she asked me, it was over the phone—likely during Level 3 Phone Bazingas. In fact, I’m most certain that all important “reminders” she gives me happen during Phone Bazingas. This would also explain why last Thursday I didn’t take out the trash and why I didn’t pick up the dry cleaning (though in my defense, I did set a new all-time high score in Mario Kart—YEAH ME!).

Can Phone Bazingas be Stopped?

Don’t waste your time trying to stop it. You can’t. I’ve tried everything—setting them in front of the television, letting them play with the iPad, gating them in their playroom and then going upstairs and crouching in the corner of the bathroom tub (this only makes them louder and generally ends with an injury or something valuable breaking). I even tried bribing them with candy one time when I was trying to make a work call. This just led to two sets of screaming: 1) when they landed me with a high-pitched Phone Bazinga and 2) when they were furious that I wouldn’t give them candy after they failed to remain quiet during my important call.

So forgive us friends and family when we don’t answer your calls and when you haven’t seen our number show up on your caller ID in years. It’s not because we don’t want to talk or because we’re mad at you (though if you were the one who drank the last beer in our house we are probably mad at you). It’s because, quite frankly, we can’t. At least, we can’t peacefully, all because of the Phone Bazinga.

And that, my friends, is why the phone companies invented texting. 

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Dudes vs. Dads

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There’s No Place Like Macomb

In the middle of nowhere Illinois lives a place. A place that holds scattered roads and a population that wouldn’t fill the lower deck of a baseball stadium. A place whose downtown is smaller than some people’s backyards. A place where traffic is defined as “waiting behind 2 cars at a stop sign” and the closest Starbucks isn’t around the corner, it’s in Chicago.  

It’s a small place. A very small place. But it’s a place that’s a big part of my life.

Before I was a Dad, I spent many summers in Macomb, Illinois, home of the Western Illinois University Leathernecks, Candy Lane and, most important, actor John Mahoney (you know, the dad from “Frasier”). Also, my aunt and uncle live there. We took family vacations to Macomb all the time—mostly because we loved spending time with family, but also because Disney World doesn’t let you sleep on it’s couch for free.

We played games, watched movies, had dessert after every meal. We swam in a round, over-sized horse trough that had been spending its twilight years moonlighting as a pool. We read books and shared stories—and I had extra time to bond with my cousin Carl, the only boy cousin in my life.

So I suggested to my wife that when our daughters were old enough to handle the long car ride (which means putting up with me singing Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” for 6 hours straight until I’ve reached vocal perfection), we’d take a vacation to visit Macomb. I told her, “Don’t worry, it’ll be relaxing.”

She laughed.

With three kids under the age of 6, nothing is relaxing—not vacation, not car rides, not even going to the bathroom. In fact, going to the bathroom may be the most stressful time of all. If you let the kids in, they sit on your lap and poke you in the face and, eventually, run off with the toilet paper. If you lock them out, you are safely protected by the door but you are also subjected to stressful screams, tears and noises that can only be described as “things shattering.” Relaxation isn’t in the Merriam Webster’s Dictionary for Parents.

Her laughter left me paranoid. What if it wasn't as amazing as I remembered it to be? What if the relaxing days of my youth in Macomb were actually stress-filled days for my parents (a club that now had me as member)? What if my kids were disappointed by the lack of Disney Princesses (I guess my uncle could have dressed up, but I think they would have his beard under the tiara.) What if the whole trip was a letdown? Thankfully, it wasn’t.

From the moment we arrived, we were greeted with helping hands and fancy cappuccino drinks.  We enjoyed free use of all the hammock swings, strategically placed to be shaded by trees for optimal book reading (which is vacation code for “napping”). Fresh fruit lined the kitchen counter while a hidden stash of liquor lined the “After The Kids Are In Bed” table. My wife got to sleep in each morning and I continually sneaked out for 4-mile runs. We watched movies and played music. We sang songs. We splashed around in our swimsuits and caught summer fireworks under a beautifully clear Macomb sky. It wasn’t just the kind of vacation I had hoped for; it was better. It was also one vacation my girls still talk about today.

This got me thinking: We get too caught up in fancy (expensive) vacations like Disney, trying to give our kids great memories that we think they want. But the truth is that great vacation memories can be created anywhere. Sometimes, in fact, the more relaxing ones—filled with water balloon fights and Chinese Checkers and bedtime stories read by vacation aunts and uncles—are the ones your kids will look back on and enjoy most. Heck, that’s what happened to me. And, hopefully, that’s what’s happening to my kids too.

There are thousands of Macombs out there—places where vacations are cheap but memories are plentiful. Could be visiting a family member who’s kind enough to let you stay at his or her house. Could be a campground that’s a short drive away. Could be a pitched tent in your backyard. It’s just a place where you spend time with the people you love just enjoying each other’s company.

And when it comes to the best vacation memories to me, there’s no place like Macomb.

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