I mentioned in my last post that I spent most of last night fixing a toilet that would not stop flushing. It took much longer than I wanted it to take. I got my hands all grimy from the old gaskets and had water drip all over the floor. I also got a squirt in the face with (clean) water when the pipe thingy came out of the tube thingy. In the end (no pun intended) I had a toilet that basically worked – it flushes most of the time – as well as a big mess in the bathroom.
My dad is really handy. It seems he can fix anything in a house that is broken. He does carpentry, electrical work, plumbing, and does amazing woodworking. All that and a PhD in physics to boot. He has yet to build a nuclear reactor in their backyard, but it’s only a matter of time.
As you can guess, he is kindly invited to visit his children/grandchildren and, oh by the way, has a bunch of projects to do. He loves it. This has made me assume that my Y-Chromosome meant that it was my genetically-mandated duty to fix things around the house. So I try to fix whatever gets broken; but my Y-Chromosome must have been watching an infomercial when the handy genes were handed out. I guess it is a problem with attention-span – I get impatient to see the job finished and hurry. But toilets don’t like to be hurried. I think that is why the pipe thingy squirted my face.
The problem with all home improvement for me is that I am forced live with the imperfection of my skills. I hate to be constantly reminded of my not-so handy nature. My Y-Chromosome hangs its nucleic acids in shame whenever a door I fixed doesn’t close properly or a shelf I hung is a little crooked. My dad tried to teach me how to do these things when I was young, but I was too interested in reruns of Gilligan’s Island to learn life-skills.
Which brings me to my kids. I don’t do repairs on them either. It’s not a Y-Chromosome thing, however, but just the fact that I have to live with my decisions. When they were first born I would do a little doctoring on the side with them – just to save my wife the office visit. What I realized is that my medical decisions were scrutinized far more than those I made anywhere else. It is not that my wife was difficult – it wasn’t her at all, it was me. When I am in the office, I see someone, give advice, and send them home. I don’t have to live with the consequences of the advice I gave, I just go on to the next patient. With my kids, I get expectant looks that seem to say to me: I thought you were a good doctor. How come I am not better yet? My dad must be a Quack!!!
My son used to ask me questions like: “Daddy, my leg hurts sometimes. Why does it do that?” or “I get a sharp pain in my ear after eating Cheetos. What makes it do that?” When I shrugged and said that people just had aches and pains, he got disgusted and stopped asking me any medical questions. So I just try to steer clear of giving any advice beyond the obligatory Tylenol dose calculation or checking a throat to see if they should be brought in for possible strep.
Having a father who is a doctor is just not as cool as having a dad who can build his own microdensitometer in the basement. Although it is entertaining when I get squirted in the face by a toilet.
I hate pipe thingies.