Throwing the first stone.

Ok, I’ve had enough. I want you to think about the dumbest thing you’ve ever done. Now imagine the whole world knows about it. Seriously.

I’m not saying that Nadya Suleman did the dumbest thing imaginable. But for argument’s sake.. let’s say she did. Let’s say that having octuplets was the dumbest thing a person could do. Let’s say it was an insane, selfish, and irresponsible act.. mostly because I can’t find anyone to disagree.

So… now what? This poor woman is being publicly stoned for her choices. For going in for a seventh IVF treatment (good for her!) while being an unemployed, single parent who relies on student loans and government help to feed her children (ohhh.. this is starting to sound familiar).

Everyone is acting as though these children are the first 14 kids in North America to be raised on government dollars. Hey, it happens. If she lived in Canada, the money would be flowing. That’s just the way it goes. We pay taxes for salaries, school systems, roads, buildings.. and yeah.. we pay for other people’s kids. This is North America. We do not throw the poor children to the wolves. And we don’t publicly stone their parents for their choices.

Single or not, student or not, too many kids.. or not. She’s a human being.. and does not deserve the treatment she has been given. She takes care of her children. She feeds and bathes and plays with them. By all accounts, they seem healthy and well-adjusted. No one is accusing her of beating or murdering or neglecting her children. And because she chose not to selectively reduce / abort / murder any of her octuplets, she’s a monster?

On Judgement Day, when you are asked what you did to better the world, do you really think “well.. I wasn’t the one who had the octuplets” is going to cut it? Do you really think your soapbox is contributing?

If you can’t help, for heaven’s sake.. don’t make it worse. Pitch in, or shut up.  And be thankful you’re not the one needing the assistance.

Happy.

When I had The Boy, I spent three days in the hospital. I was in a room with five other new moms, separated by orange curtains on two sides, and walls on the other two. I didn’t have many visitors, and spent most of the day sleeping, feeding the baby, and staring at my thumbs until a nurse came to check on us or mealtime rolled around.

I thought I’d go nuts.

On the second day, I took The Boy to the nursery down the hall so I could grab a much-needed shower. Something was different. The air was still stale. The lighting was still fluorescent. Even the windows were a decent walk away (well, when we consider I had just had a 10lb baby.. anywhere is a decent walk away ).

And then.. I realized what was different. The radio was on.

I hadn’t been able to put my finger on it. Sure, staying in the hospital for a couple days can be a chore. It’s boring. It smells funny. I’m pretty sure my cell roommates were insane. But.. hearing that music.. made me realize that I’d somehow lost touch with the outside world… if only for a day or two.

And here I am again. After a horrendous fall.. I’m back in synch with the outside world. I’m happy. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it a few months ago, but in some cheesy Sound-Of-Music way, I’m happy.. and all the little things I missed are back.

We’re already halfway through the semester. My schedule isn’t so rough. I have time to piss away an entire afternoon watching movies.  I’ve had time to take The Girl sledding and spend time with friends. The house is cleaner (sorta). The car hasn’t broken down in at least a month. I have time. Time to sleep and play and strum my guitar and get my homework done and read to the kids and spend an afternoon in the park. I feel like me again.

It’s remarkable how silly, cheesy little pleasures in life are taken for granted so easily. Stop and smell the flowers, I suppose.

Stop and play the radio.

The hospital.

Dear Blog,

I don’t have time for you! We had such great expectations for each other, and now I sadly must promise nothing. If you get attention from me every 6 weeks, you’re doing well.

All the best,

 

Sigh. We’re mid-semester. Four classes, four labs, no time to do anything. I sleep little nowadays. I drink coffee in the shower and clip my nails in the car. Somehow, things are getting done. Somehow.

The Boy spent three days in the hospital a few weeks ago. He’d had an ear infection. We went to the pediatrician on a Tuesday and got antibiotics. Although his doctor recommended a two-week follow-up, we went back nine days later, as The Boy was still rubbing his ears. “He’s fine,” I was assured.

Saturday, the fever was back. Sunday, we headed to the emergency room.

Now, Canada has socialized medicine, and I don’t know it any other way. I know the emergency room is ideally for emergencies only (say, a sucking chest wound). I know walk-ins are for things that are pressing (a sinus infection, a flu, a rash), and family doctors are for everything else. But.. my baby was sick. His fever wasn’t going down, and I’ve heard that if you’re under a year old, it’s worth a trip to the emergency room.

I packed a bag. We bustled in, and I explained to the triage nurses how his fever wasn’t breaking. The took his temperature immediately: 98.6. On we went to the waiting room for who-knew-how-long. There were eight others there with similar life-threatening emergencies. They laughed and joked and did crosswords while waiting to see a doctor. While I wondered how sick they could possibly be, I bounced a healthy, 98.6-degree baby on my lap who laughed and played and drank his juice. (I never give him juice. But he hadn’t been keeping milk down!)

We were called in about a half hour later, which was not too bad of a wait, and perhaps The Boy got in sooner than the other “emergencies” due to his age. We sat in the next waiting room (I suppose it’s an observation room. But it always just feels like a smaller waiting room, really) and waited to see the doctor. The Boy’s temperature was up to 100.5. He napped. We waited two hours in that room.

And then The Boy got really sick.

His temperature jumped to 104 and stalled. (See? Mommy really wasn’t making it up!) We saw a pediatrician within minutes (his very same!) who decided The Boy was dehydrated, still had his ear infection (because clearly it was gone 3 days prior when he’d seen it last?) and had gotten the wrong medication. Which yes, was essentially like putting a Snoopy bandaid on a sucking chest wound. His bacterial infection had just gotten worse and worse, and had now spread. The pediatrician bustled off to get stronger antibiotics. The Boy had a dose, and roughly 10 seconds later, it was everywhere. All over him, me, the floor, and the medical equipment, along with the 10 or so ounces of juice he’d sucked back.

So… The Boy was admitted. Before I brought him up to pediatrics, two lab techs came in to take his blood. I noticed the one with the needle in his hand had the index finger of his glove cut out, exposing his bare skin. I asked why he’d done that. He said, “I can feel the veins better.” I said.. “Ummm.. but aren’t you supposed to wear gloves?” He said, “Don’t worry. I don’t have anything. And I know your baby doesn’t either.”

I snapped, really. He was taking blood. My BABY’s blood. He assured me that I was the only one in all his years who had ever raised a fuss. “So.. essentially you’ve NEVER worn gloves to take blood?”

He put on a fresh pair. Two more lab techs came in, this time to insert an IV in those tiny little veins. They bumbled around like the Two Stooges. They dropped butterfly clips. They missed — and dug for — those tiny little veins, all the while making my tiny, sick little boy scream.

We made it up to pediatrics. The Boy was placed in isolation, which meant he couldn’t leave his room for any reason, and everyone who entered had to wear a fresh hospital robe and take it off before they left the room.

Now, I’m all for 18 hours in the hospital. It’s fun. People check on you. You never have to cook. You get fussed over and are the center of attention for a few minutes in the morning when the doctors make their rounds. But once you hit that 18-hour mark, the fun runs out. It really does. So on day two, I left The Boy sleeping in his room and stepped outside for some fresh air. I chatted up a woman on the sidewalk, who also clearly needed a break from her day. She told me she was in to visit so-and-so who had surgery, etc. I told her my Boy was sick, and I needed some air. I told her how I was going insane on a beautiful day, and was angry he’d gotten the wrong medication that led to all this.

She told me about her friend. Who also had a baby on pediatrics. The baby, at 6 weeks old, had stopped breathing at home. Her parents rushed her in, but being first-time parents, didn’t really know how serious the situation was. And that baby’s 6-week-old heart stopped. Then her brain. She was on life support upstairs, and they were waiting to pull the plug. (I saw a couple leaving later that night. Empty carseat in hand. Heartwrenching.)

I put on my big girl panties and headed up to The Boy. Who yes, had an ear infection, and yes, it sucked that there was nothing to do and Mommy was missing 3 days of school that would take her 2 weeks to catch up on. But he would be fine. And most things are best in perspective.

On the second night, a nurse ran into our room. The Boy was crying on my lap. He was tired or feeling sick or otherwise unhappy. He still had his IV in, and couldn’t leave the boundary of where that cord reached, much less his hospital room. She said, “Hi, I’m just filling in for a few minutes.” (I will add, she was not wearing the isolation room signature gown.) “How is Hailey doing?”

I asked her to repeat herself. “How is she doing?” I said.. pointing.. “This is a boy.” She said, “Oh. How is he doing?” She snapped a syringe into his IV pole, and before she programmed it to course through his little veins, I said, “Umm.. did you say ‘Hailey?’ This is not ‘Hailey.’ This is a boy. And his name is not ‘Hailey.’”

She blamed me. Clearly it was my fault when she didn’t check his hospital bracelet, or even the name on the empty syringe she’d just removed from his IV pole. Clearly it was my fault that he almost got enough codiene for a 7-year-old CANCER kid, Hailey. Good. Lord.

The Boy recovered. He’s as healthy as ever, and has two teeth! Still not crawling, but I imagine it will come in the next 2 – 3 weeks.

The Girl? She’s loving Kindergarten. She’s learning more than I think I ever will. She’s great at math and is really working hard at printing and sight-reading. She has 30 minutes of homework every night: 15 minutes of reading in English, and 15 minutes in French. 30 minutes? I’m all for her education. All for it. But I don’t have 30 minutes at night to do ANYthing. So we read one story per night. And alternate between French and English. I do wonder what happens in those 4 hours she’s at school every day. 30… minutes? Sigh.

Oh yeah, and it snowed.

August

August is almost over, and what a month it’s been. I only had one class for most of the month, and while it was a reasonable amount of work, I was still able to enjoy much of the summer.

The Girl went to B.C. (or A.B.C., as she calls it) for 10 whole days. I didn’t want her to go — mostly for selfish reasons. I’d never been away from her for that long, and I wonder if she realized how long “10 sleeps” would really be. She drives me nuts most days, but when she was gone, I was distraught. I needed the break. But really, just.. distraught. I called her every day, and I know she had a great vacation. She came back with a fresh new haircut and was back to driving me nuts within a couple days

There is one more sleep til Kindergarten. One more. We’ve been counting down. The supplies are ready to go. We have our markers and pencils and glue sticks and paint shirt. We have a backpack and lunch kit and crayons and new shoes. The Girl and I went shopping for school clothes (she doesn’t need them, but it IS the first day of Kindergarten). Dresses were hard to find. All I could see in the 4 – 5 stores we went to were “sweater dresses” and leggings. Really? Cause I think I wore that on MY first day of Kindergarten in 1984. Perhaps I should have saved my lime green and pink track suit from Grade 3.

The Boy is getting bigger. It’s amazing how they do that. He’s almost 8 months old now. Not crawling, but sitting quite well. He doesn’t have any teeth yet, but the way he gums anything within reach.. they should start coming any day now. We are experimenting with more finger foods.

I picked up my textbooks for the fall semester. I managed to find them all used, which meant they were cheaper, and a little broken in, so I don’t need to feel guilty about the odd scratch or singe marks when I inevitably set fire to them halfway through the course. When I brought them all to the cashier at the bookstore, she announced my total: “Three hundred and eighty-four dollars and seventeen cents.” I expect that much, but it blows me away every time. Three hundred and eighty-four dollars and seventeen cents for USED books? That I’m probably not going to read? I was grumbling inside. Then she said, “Would you like to purchase a bag to put them in for sixty-nine cents?”

Now, for three hundred and eighty-four dollars and seventeen cents.. for USED books, a bag should be included. No? For three hundred and eighty-four dollars and seventeen cents for USED books, she should be coming to scrub my bathroom with a toothbrush three times a week for a year.

“No. No, thank you.” I loaded them into the bottom of the stroller — which almost collapsed from the weight — and went off to purchase my plastic parking pass for two hundred and fifty dollars and twenty-six cents. At least I’ll be using that.

After the car was loaded, I rummaged through the pile of books for my physics lab manual. I’ve been so worried about this class, and have actually arranged my last few semesters so that I can take it twice, if need be. A defeatist attitude, perhaps. I flipped it open — gingerly at first, then like a 12 year old with a new comic book.

I could not believe the words that came out of my mouth: “Well, that doesn’t look SO bad.. ” Did I really say that?

 

The next 100 days.. will be the death of me.

Corn bran.

The Boy is at a fun age food-wise. At almost 8 months old, he’s tried most fruits and vegetables, a few meats, and we’ve begin dabbling in finger foods and different textures.

And wasn’t it cute when I popped a piece of corn bran cereal in his mouth, and he made a funny face. And wasn’t it cute as he sucked it down to mush before swallowing and opening his little mouth for more.. And wasn’t it adorable how feeding him the next four or five pieces led to a realization that even a small amount of bran cereal to a baby that small would be akin to an average-sized woman injesting A BOX of laxatives.

And wasn’t it ADRORABLE when the house smelled like a sewage plant explosion for two days in one of the hottest weeks of the year.

Lesson learned.. lesson learned.

Tempting Fate

Children certainly don’t come with a manual, and although most of us have good intentions when it comes to parenting, sometimes mistakes are made. Big mistakes.

Out of laziness or poor planning or apathy, The Girl watches too much tv. Sometimes her socks don’t match. A can of frosting for lunch is not necessarily out of the question, and a teeth-brushing schedule is sketchy at best.

She always always sits in a carseat with a buckled seatbelt. She always always has sunscreen and a hat on on sunny days. She almost always goes to bed at 8pm sharp, always wears a helmet when riding her bike, and never ever EVER lest-Mommy-wrings-your-neck runs on the road.

Last weekend, we were at the pool. And I’ll admit, I got lazy.

She had been up late the night before. It was my sister’s wedding after all, and the kids were in the pool much of the evening. The Girl can’t swim. She’s been in swimming lessons off and on since she was 7 months old, and took the Sea Turtle level no less than four times before passing and moving on to Salamander (which she failed). I don’t like to push her at sports or dancing or other activities, but I feel that swimming is a life skill, and she needs to learn how to do it, whatever her pace is. She sees no correlation between the lessons at the public pool and swimming in her aunt’s backyard.

At any rate, late in the evening the night before, there were maybe 50 people standing around the pool or swimming in it. She at first clung only to the stairs, but got a little more daring this year, and ventures into the deep (8 feet or so) end while on a floating chair. I try to make sure she’s wearing water wings or SOMEthing inflatable. And really, she should not have been out of MY arm’s reach.

The next day, we were back at the pool. There were 10 of us or so sitting poolside, eating, cannonballing, chatting. Family from out of town were set to return home in a few hours, and it was just a nice, lazy afternoon. The Girl spent much of it in the pool, floating along on her chair. I decided to take The Boy in the pool. I slathered him in sunscreen, put on his trunks and his hat, and made my way down the stairs on the inside of the pool with the baby on my hip. It took me a minute to realize what was going on. She was there, her toes barely scraping across the pool bottom. Her left arm was stretched out, and her face, slowly going under the water, was panicked. “Mommy, help me.”

And The Girl almost drowned.

It was so sudden. So… silent. She had tried to get out of her floating chair, and somehow fell to where the pool floor was just a little too deep for her. It seemed like hours between the time I saw her grasping for me and the time I yanked her out by one arm until she was well above the water.

The look on her face will haunt me for some time I’m sure. I think about what would have happened.. if I hadn’t happened to be RIGHT there. It occured to me that although I am a fairly good and confident swimmer, I wouldn’t have heard her scream. In fact, there were many good swimmers sitting by the pool.. a few were physically in the water with her.. and yet.. she was MY responsibility. Not theirs. We were all lazily watching her. A glance at the water now and then. But how long would it have been before she hit the bottom of the pool? Eight seconds? Three? And then what? What if she’d died? What would the rest of the day have been like? The next day..?

I had only a few days prior been reading how the week before was Drowning Prevention week. A person — even a good swimmer — can drown in an inch of water. And there I was, stupid as ever, being so careless with someone so precious.

I bought lifejackets. One for The Girl, and one for The Boy. They will never, ever be in water without one. And even then, lifejackets are not substitutes for supervision. It’s terrible that it took a scare for me to realize my own stupidity, but I’m thankful for it, as now I know that laziness is best served with mismatched socks and cans of frosting, and should be kept far away from the pool where children are concerned.

Seven dead babies and a whole lotta stupid.

I am all for forcible sterilization of this woman. Really, how many people have to die before women like these learn to keep their pants on?

The allen wrench that ruined my life.

I remember The Girl’s nutritionist saying I could switch from formula to whole milk when she was at least 9 months old and eating at least a cup of food every day. We made the switch at about 10 months. The Boy? He’s 6 months old now, and eating almost two full cups of food. Everyday. He also drinks 45 oz of formula. Every day. I wonder what’s wrong with his stomach. Is it a boy thing? His sour stomach has calmed down quite a bit, and thank goodness — because cleaning up pureed peas is a little higher on the disgusting scale than cleaning up formula.

He’s also a little more mobile. He can roll over on to his side — and now and then to his tummy — and sort of.. spin.. on his back.. so I decided it was time to lower the mattress in his crib. He’s managed to wedge his big ol’ fat thighs (he gets those from me!) into the slats of the crib, so I put up the bumper pads. When the mattress was at its highest level, he was almost able to swing his legs over, so it was time.

I took off the bumper pads, and hoisted the mattress out of the crib to find the allen wrench that is always, always under the mattress. I needed the wrench to loosen the bolt thingies so I could lower the bottom of the crib (essentially a heavy, flat board separate from the sides). Except the allen wrench wasn’t there. I checked under the crib. No allen wrench. Night table, dresser, baby’s memory box. No allen wrench. I checked the kitchen cupboard where I hide things of value. Then the cutlery drawer (really, at that point, who knows). No allen wrench. I checked the toolbox! Nothing. I checked under the kitchen table, where the wrench for the table and chairs is always, always taped. No allen wrench.

I went downstairs. Checked the coffee tables, and even the disassembled coffee table where the allen wrenches — you guessed it — are always, always together with the bolt thingies. Found the bag of bolts n’ wing nuts n’ such. NO ALLEN WRENCHES.

I did eventually find two allen wrenches through my frantic flipping-the-house-upside-down. Of course, they didn’t fit the crib. Now, I was obsessed.

I went to the grocery store and picked up some milk. They had lightbulbs, hammers, duct tape.. Hmm.. No allen wrenches.

I stopped by the dollar store, where I KNOW I’ve seen allen wrenches before. The dollar store is normally a SEA of allen wrenches, just waiting to be scooped up. You normally can’t walk through the aisles without tripping over them. And you know? I think that particular dollar store was actually officially an Allen Wrench store, until people without cribs in their houses complained and they started introducting crappy toys and witty coffee mugs. They had lightbulbs, hammers, duct tape, screwdrivers in all the colours of the rainbow. No allen wrenches. I announced to some poor lady passing by with her child that I was on the verge of a meltdown. She didn’t have an allen wrench either.

I considered swinging by a furniture store. And buying a wooden chair or table just to get the allen wrench out of the box. Instead, I headed to one more dollar store. They had allen wrenches in packages of 8! I bought two packages, and went home.

Now, there are a few things in life that are easier with more than two hands. Lowering the mattress on a crib is one of them. I loosened one bolt thingy, then the other on the same side. I let the board slide to the ground. Now, I was working outside the crib, but using the wrench on the inside. I loosened the third bolt thingy. And off it flew. If I’d paid more attention in physics, I could have calculated trajectory and all those fancy x, y coordinates. I found it eventually, and approached the fourth bolt thingy. It wasn’t easy to loosen, as the other 3 corners of this ~ 60lb board were now dangling precariously toward the floor. And.. you don’t need to be a physics major to guess what happened next.

Mommy. Broke. The. Crib.

 

Can’t feed em? Don’t breed em.

What a great bumper sticker. Except not really.

I found this story about a Maryland housing official proudly displaying it on his vehicle. I’m sure he grew up in the best neighbourhood, went to only the best schools, never ever lived paycheque to paycheque, and had life handed to him on a silver platter. (And then got a job in public housing. Good for him.) I only kinda partially agree with this statement. It’s hard to look at pictures of emaciated babies in third world countries who will starve to death before they learn to walk, and it’s too easy to wonder what their parents were thinking.

Now let’s snap into context. This is North America. There is no reason for anyone to starve to death here. In particular, there is no reason for a child to be homeless. We help each other here. Now, it’s not ok to have eight or ten babies when you really can’t afford them.  No one has children just to get a roof. That would be like chopping your feet off to save money on shoes.

I have never ever met a little girl whose wanted to be a “welfare mom” when she grew up. I never thought I would be going through school with two kids and a mortgage by myself. Shit happens, life happens, and we make the most of it. But public housing is usually a temporary thing. It’s there to help. It’s there to lower rent payments so children can have food and clothes and diapers, etc. It’s not always long-term, and it doesn’t need to be a shameful thing. If the help is available, who would be foolish enough to not accept it?

I’ve heard comments. Unnecessary comments. Posed to myself, and others in my situation. I’ve always thought.. my goodness.. if you cannot help me, you don’t need to make it worse. There has to be a middle class. There has to be a lower class. That’s just the way it works. If we all got paid the very same amount of money.. well, correct me if I’m wrong.. but didn’t Hitler have an idea about that 60 years ago or so? It costs hundreds of thousands of dollars to raise a child from birth to college age. Should I have set that aside before I had children? Should I have aborted them?

I hope others can begin to think twice (at least) before passing judgement. It could have been you. It could have been your mother who applied for government housing to keep you safe, and to keep you warm. Or it could have been you who looked in an empty refrigerator one moment, and a hungry child the next, wondering if your baby was getting tired of rice and hotdogs.

Be thankful you are in a position to criticize. And not the one needing help. 

Cars, cops, n’ stuff.

In September, I was 6 months pregnant. On my way home between classes, I stopped for a train. And my car was trashed by someone who didn’t. No harm done, but the car was a write-off and my eye was messed up for about a week (actually, it’s still numb, but whatever).

I’m not the type of person who car-hops. I city-hop when I can, but car shopping is such a pain, so I drive what I have until it runs into the ground. I miss my car. I’m crying over spilled milk, I know. BUT THAT WAS MY CAR.

A family member gave / lent me a car in the meantime (so, between now and forever, I hope). It was free, and that was so great, but somehow it’s led to this post

In the 8 months I’ve been driving this car, it has broken down 4 times. It’s only 10 years old and has a reasonable amount of mileage on it, but somehow, it was cursed at the dealership. Or something. The first time it got towed, I had to abandon it in a church parking lot. I started walking to a gas station about a half block away (7 months pregnant, -40, and late for a doctor’s appointment). A few cars drove by, and one stopped. One stopped. The stranger told me to get in, and I obliged, though only after we assured each other neither was an axe murderer. He drove me to my doctor’s appointment, never to be seen again. The car was towed later that day, some belts were repaired or replaced, and although the ABS line was severed (really?) on the hoist, the car place told me all was well and the indicator light would remain on. Fine.

Then,

the tire blew. On the coldest day of the winter, when it was stupid to go out in the first place (especially with a little girl and a newborn), I heard the classic thumpity thump that only an exploded tire will give, and drove the last few blocks home from the grocery store. I purchased an emergency road service membership, and called for assistance. Since it was -55C or so, you can imagine the emergency trucks were in high demand, so after a refreshing 11 hour wait, the donut was on, and we were off to the tire store in the morning. Now, I’m not so good with cars, and I don’t pretend either. So I trudged in with two kids, two carseats, pointed to a stack of tires, and said “Hi. I need one of those thingies.”

“One of those round black things? A tire?”

“Yeah…”

And who knows what a reasonable price is. At that point, it doesn’t matter. They see me comin’.

In February, the heat in the car decided to stop working. It’s cold in February. Really, really cold. We drove around for two weeks with blankets and mittens and touques. Finally, I made a call to a car repair shop that had “courtesy shuttle” in its ad. I made an appointment, drove the car in, moved both kids and both carseats into the courtesy shuttle, and the driver took us home… about 6 blocks away. When the car was repaired, the guy working the desk decided that the shuttle only goes one-way. I explained to him that The Girl was sick, and I needed to get her to a doctor. I explained I was on my own, and even the shuttle driver agreed that he would be able to pick me up for a return trip. “Nope. One way. He’s off in the afternoon, and we only run shuttles in the morning.” (Which was as bold-face lying as I’ve ever heard, as my original shuttle was at 3pm, and as my cab arrived — with two carseats, and two babies — the shuttle driver was seen working in the parking lot. For an $8 cab ride, I will never, ever go back.)

Yesterday, I was driving home from my brother-in-law’s birthday party. I approached a stop sign. And yay? No brakes. I’d heard that feels-like-there’s-a-dead-body-under-my-car thing before when my brakes were shot with my old car. I drove a few meters, and turned around. I got out, and looked under the car. I got back in as a police car was approaching from the other direction. I flagged. Them. Down. There was a time in my life when seeing a police car meant, “Shit! Cops!” But now, especially living in the hood, it means “Oh thank God. The police are here.”

One of the officers thought it was a CV joint, which sounded mildly important when he insisted that was the piece that held the wheel on to the rest of the car. I drove back to my sister’s and called a tow truck this morning.

When the car was ready to be picked up, my sister dropped everything and came to get us. Again, two kids, two carseats, it’s an epic. She probably doesn’t drive through the hood too much, and ultimately drove 57 in a 40 zone (some hidden playground somewhere). We were pulled over. There was another car in front of us, and just as my sister handed her licence over, the driver in the front car was suddenly in hysterics. He opened and slammed his driver door, and was either refusing to get out or otherwise cause a scene. He started screaming. We were on our way shortly with her licence in hand, no ticket or warning, and a great sight in the rearview of a man parked in a crappy old white car next to a lawn that hadn’t been mowed in months, being successfully subdued by two officers who figured he was more of a pressing situation than two girls, two kids, and two carseats. Yay, no ticket

But alas, after the car was towed from my sister’s, then to the only auto shop open on a longish-weekend Sunday, and an appointment was cancelled getting us closer in line (and it really only took 3 hours to fix), it turns out some sort of disc.. or something… had exploded. The shop guy said it was the worst he’d ever seen, and actually showed it to me, next to what “one should look like.” He knocked 20% off the repair bill for some reason, which was awesome I swear driving this car is practice for the kids’ teenage years. Every time I turn around, it needs $200. Bah.