Ulysses

Ask a dad why he wanted to be a dad, and he's either a liar or shouldn't be allowed within 200 feet of an elementary school: "Because I love kids!" Bullshit. Yeah, he probably liked kids before siring one, but really what he wanted was to be a hero. Not just "oh, you collated AND stapled those copies for me? Dude, you're my hero!", but a demigod, a legend to his very own Telemachus. I liked kids - still do - but I had no desire to change shit-filled diapers or mete and dole out unequal laws to a bunch of rugrats. The ensigns of command did not appeal to me, but showing my heirs how to paddle into a wave or score a try sure did. I wanted to be someone's hero. To seek, to strive, to find, and not to yield, and to do so in front of a rapt audience of smaller versions of myself. You know - the fun part of being a father.

The holidays, life-affirming and life-draining. In the Win Column - the kids got a bunch of great toys and got to see both sets of grandparents. But that was yesterday - literally - and today was the last day of vacation before everyone resumed what passes for normal lives. Most of it was spent cleaning, a delayed Boxing Day for us, both the masters of the house and its servants. I'm not an idle king - took my folks to the airport, my kids to the barbershop, and the whole clan to Target all before 4:00, then cooked dinner, a decent enough red curry, components courtesy of Trader Joe's. By 6:00 I was already thinking about bed, the past two weeks falling on me like a boulder. No, more than two weeks - we'd been going non-stop since mid-October, one big Sprawliday: Halloweenthanksgivinghanukkahchristmasnewyear's. I wanted to lose myself in imbecilic television and a couple of stiff drinks and get some rest before pressing the Reset Button twelve hours hence. First, though, there were dishes to be done. 

I got through two plates and a couple of forks when I realized that the sink wasn't draining. The garbage disposal - sometimes I forget to flip it on. So I did. And the garbage disposal...didn't. "Fuuuuu..." I breathed, then looked around to see if either kid was present: "......ck." Tried it again. It whirred and spun panang-colored water, a Charybdis born of the god Kenmore. Rice and green beans spiraled around its event horizon and went nowhere; Poseidon was not accepting any sacrifices today. I retrieved a plunger from the laundry room. Beth called out from the bathroom, where she was helping Lucas with his shower. "Everything ok?" "Eh, the sink's backed up. I'm trying to fix it." "Ok", she replied, and went back to instructing the boy on the science of rising shampoos from one's hair. She works her work, I mine.

I plunged. Again. And again. "You." Plunge. "Piece." Plunge. "Of." Plunge. "Shit." Plunge. "DIS." Plunge. "POSE!". Plunge - snap. The head of the plunger was now bobbing in the sink, whose waters had turned gray. "Goddammit!" "Wha' happen daddy?" I looked down. Zoë looked up at me. She'd become Cindy Lou-Whoish over the past few weeks, with the big-eyed questions. "Er, nothing, baby. Go see Mom." The sink was as full as it had been. So it was off to the store for Liquid Plumbr or Drano or sulphuric acid or napalm and a new plunger. 

I strode into the kitchen, plunger in one hand, bottle of Drano in the other. I dumped the entire bottle down the disposal. And waited. And waited. And waited. 15, 20 minutes elapsed. It felt like ten years. Nothing. I bailed out the sink as best I could using a salad bowl. (Note to self: wash that salad bowl before eating out of it, lest ye wish to taste thine own acid-dissolved tongue along with the arugula.) The water that was left was now whitish. The disposal glared at me. I shoved the plunger down into that reeking eye. Nothing. That sumbitch was clogged. I wasn't about to yield. Back to the store to seek out another bottle of Drano, the big one this time. (The Greeter at the grocery store gazed upon me, as I passed him a second time, as though I were one of the Noble Six Hundred, riding into the Valley of Death.) I raced home and shambled back into the kitchen - this had been going on for a good hour and half - and dumped most of the contents into the disposal. 

It's now 9:37. The kitchen smells like sweet basil soaked in bleach. The sink's still clogged. 

This would normally be the part where I say something about how the heroics are in the little things, cutting the crusts off of the peanut butter sandwiches, holding a small hand while a doctor sticks a needle into a small arm, performing the intricately impossible feat of tying a shoe. And that's true, for the most part, and for the most part I wouldn't have it any other way. One realizes quickly that even the most mundane aspects of parenthood are still of noble note. But there are also days like today, when it feels like I'm on a ship cursed to sail forever across a sea of broken things, under the laughing eyes of gods who will never be appeased.