Goodbye, Essie…

Well, it’s official.

Essie, our beloved Ford Escort of eleven years, is in her death throes.

It’s hard to say when her downward spiral started.  That infuriating red “check engine” light came on forty thousand miles ago and just never went away, no matter how many times we took her in for a check-up, but we learned to live with it.  Over the years, she occasionally needed this or that part replaced, her brakes repaired, or her tires aligned, but it was never anything serious.  About six months ago, the lights in the dashboard went out, leaving us to guess how fast we were going anytime we traveled after dark, but it was a minor inconvenience at worst.  We were (mostly) faithful about her quarterly engine service appointments, and, in blatant denial of her Ford-ish origins, we were somehow convinced that she would keep running for years to come.

Then one day, this past fall, it happened for the first time.  Sitting at a red light, waiting to turn right, Essie shifted herself out of Drive and into Neutral.  The light turned green, I pressed on the gas pedal, and the engine revved, but we went…nowhere.  Confused, I tried again.  After an interminable four or five seconds, the engine caught and on we went, as if nothing had happened.  But we both knew that wasn’t true.  It was the first of many times she would pop out of gear, and romancing her touchy transmission back into forward motion became an artistic exercise, involving everything from running the gear shift through all the gears to restarting the engine, all while the people behind us were looking pointedly at their watches and tapping their horns.

Essie’s occasional lapses in reliability soon became frequent lapses, and we took her in to the shop, so Paul’s dad could bring her back to life as he had done so many times in the past.  His auto-mechanics class found and fixed a few problems (there is always something to fix on a Ford) and gave her back to us.  For a few days, she was fine, and we thought the problem had been solved.  Until it happened again.  And then again.  And again.

As Essie’s downshifting problem increased in frequency, we noticed a few things.  It was worse when it was cold.  Or when we were forced to brake quickly.  Or when we talked about Essie’s “little problem” anywhere within her earshot.  She’s a sensitive car.

Finally, one day on the way to church, she popped out of gear at a red light, and no amount of cajoling could get her going again.  Fortunately, after five minutes or so, our friends Jim and Alyson pulled up behind us on their way to church.  Jim hopped out to see what kind of trouble we were having, and he and Paul ended up pushing our car across three lanes of traffic, through the intersection, and onto a side road.  We knew the time had come to figure something out.

Paul’s dad recommended that we take her to see a transmission specialist, so last night we dropped her off at Rod’s Transmission and waited with baited breath for the verdict.

Today, Rod called Paul, and this is what he said:

“It’s time to start looking for a new car.”

He said that the transmission fluid was looking pretty dark, but that if he flushed it out, she’d probably stop working altogether.  He said we could probably get a few more days or weeks out of her, but not to go on any long trips.  He said some stuff about the flywheel and rpms and wear and tear.  He said something that sounded like “total transmission rebuild”.

And he definitely said “thousands of dollars to fix”.

Sorry, Essie.

So today we went to pick up our car…and we brought her home to die.

I know she’s just a car, but I’m sad.  I started remembering today how excited we were to get her back in 1999.  She had just 1300 miles on her and was practically brand new.  We got an amazing deal and I remember feeling like God had led us to the perfect car for our freshly minted family of three.  She carried both our babies safely across three states, and we took scores of road trips in her, playing games and singing out loud as we rode along with our feet up on the dashboard.  She bears the scars of spilled juice, smashed raisins, and worse in her worn-out upholstery, but she bears them with dignity.  When Caleb was three, he called her “our red race car”, and she tried her best to live up to the name.  It’s harder to say goodbye than I thought.

We’ll still drive her, of course.  We have no choice.  We’re going to buy my parents’ 2006 Honda Civic, but the plan is for my sister to drive it up here when she and her husband move in early April.  I hope Essie can hold out that long.  We always said we would drive her until she stopped moving.  Who knew she would take that so literally?

From the bottom of our hearts, Essie, we thank you.

You had a good run.

That Mom

Thursday, Caleb had a dentist appointment.  He sat very still and opened his mouth wide while the dentist cleaned and filled two cavities.

That night, he started complaining that his teeth hurt–on the same side as his dental work–and neither of us got much sleep.  I thought it might be residual irritation from the procedure, so I gave him acetaminophen and ibuprofen and sent him to school in the morning.  He seemed to be fine on Friday, which was unfortunate, because by the time his jaw started aching again, the dentist’s office was closed for the weekend.

The pain steadily grew worse throughout Saturday and Sunday, but I didn’t really worry until this morning, when Caleb’s poor little face started swelling up on one side.  After Paul dropped us off at the building, I sent Caleb to class as usual, determined to get him an appointment as soon as possible, but it wasn’t long before he was back in my office, moaning and holding his cheek.  Frantic, I called the service line for our dental provider and was told that the earliest I could get an emergency appointment was late this afternoon–hours away–and that it would be a forty minute drive away in Spokane, at a facility we’ve never been to.

Nuh uh.  My baby wasn’t going to wait one minute longer to feel better if I could help it.

There was only one problem: I didn’t have the car.  Thankfully, that didn’t stand in my way for long.  Like a superhero, my boss, Michael, came to the rescue.  He loaned me his beloved Tahoe and took over the office phones so that I could get Caleb some help.  I packed him into the vehicle and drove to our local dentist’s office, praying all the way there that I could convince them to see us without an appointment.

I have to pause here and tell you that I’m not usually “that” mom.  You know, the one who makes a pest of herself pursuing special treatment and favors for her exalted offspring.  The one who insists on the coach playing her son all four quarters, or throws a fit until the weary teacher gives her daughter a bit part in the school play.  I don’t usually bend the rules.  I don’t work the system.  I don’t show up at doctors’ offices without an appointment and push my way to the front of the line.

Except today, when that is exactly what I did.

“Please,” I begged the receptionist, after I had explained our pitiful situation, “please…isn’t there ANY way someone can just look at Caleb for a second and find out what’s causing the problem?”  I could feel the annoyance coming off of her in waves as she heaved a sigh.  And I didn’t care.  I would annoy whoever I needed to annoy to get my boy back in the examination room and on his way to feeling better.

“Okay, sit over there,” she said, pointing to the waiting area, “and I’ll see if there’s anything I can do.”

We waited about ten minutes.  I started to wonder if she was just trying to outlast us when, finally, she came out and beckoned us up to the front desk.

“I found someone to see you,” she said, “but just so you know, you’ll still have to pay the emergency appointment fee.”

“That’s fine,” I breathed, relieved.  She looked surprised, and I realized she probably thought we were trying to avoid our co-pay by sneaking in under the official radar.

In minutes, Caleb was in the dentist’s chair and I was talking to the doctor about the whole horrible weekend.  He examined Caleb, checked out his x-rays, and then gave us the bad news.  One of the fillings Caleb got last week was very deep, and the root of the tooth had become infected.  The filling was causing a pressure buildup; hence the swelling and pain.  Caleb needs a “baby” root canal to remove the infection and save the tooth.  It’s a pretty involved procedure, and we scheduled it for a week from tomorrow.  Meanwhile, the doctor prescribed some antibiotics to address the infection, which should bring down the pain and swelling.

I was so relieved, my eyes teared up as I thanked the dentist for squeezing us in without an appointment.  He still looked faintly disapproving as he shook my hand, but I couldn’t bring myself to feel bad about it.  I was just happy to be leaving with an appointment and a prescription in my hand.  The receptionist even took pity on us and charged us the $15 co-pay for a regular office visit instead of the threatened $50 emergency fee.

As I type this, Caleb is in his room, sleeping comfortably for the first time in three days.  The antibiotics started helping almost immediately.  We’re hoping the swelling will be all gone by tomorrow.

And me?  I’ve come to terms with the realization that I am “that” mother, after all.

The thankful one.

Dilemma

Over the breakfast table this morning, the classic first grade joke,

“Hey, Mom, if you love pepperjack cheese so much, why don’t you marry it?”,

gave way to a slightly more serious discussion of marriage, in which it was established that you only get married once, for life, and that you can’t be married to more than one person at the same time.  (Sorry, pepperjack cheese–our love just wasn’t meant to be.)

Caleb’s brow furrowed.  “Mom, I think I have a problem.”

“What problem?” I asked.

“Well, I have two girls I want to marry, and I can’t decide which one to ask.”

“Oh, really?  Who are they?”

“Kayla…and Morgan.” 

I knew sweet Kayla from teaching Caleb’s kindergarten class last year.  “Who’s Morgan?” I asked.

“You know, Mom–she’s the girl in kindergarten whose hair is the exact same color as vanilla ice cream!”

What woman, I ask you, is going to be able to resist such a poetic soul?

Look What I Made!

Every year around October or November, I get all ambitious about making Christmas presents.  I scan articles on crafting and sewing.  I pore over patterns and comb the aisles of Joann’s in search of ideas.

Every year around December, I give it up and hit the stores with my debit card to buy presents, like every other year.

Except this year.

This year, I stumbled across some pillow covers online that I knew Paul would love.  Space Invader pillow covers.  Not having $135 to buy the set, I thought to myself: “I bet I can make those!”  Thinking about making them might have been the end of it, if I hadn’t happened to show the design to my friend, Marci, who persuaded me on the spot to go to the craft store with her and pick out the fabric.  I decided to make throw pillows instead of pillow covers, and selected fabric to go with the colors of our family room.  Newly energized by having the materials in hand, I set to work immediately.

On Christmas Eve (not a moment too soon), I finished!

They’re far from perfect, but, needless to say, Paul thinks they’re awesome.  I’m just proud I finished them!

(If you have no idea what these are, click here.)

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

In movies, it usually happens right after the hero says something foolish, like: “Well, this isn’t so hard!” or “What could go wrong?”

Nothing tempts the powers of chaos like smug self-satisfaction.

This year, our first year in a home of our own, we hosted Christmas dinner for the first time ever.  I didn’t start out feeling smug, but as the finely choreographed ballet of food preparation played out on the pristine stage of my freshly scrubbed kitchen, pride swelled within me.  The turkey, stuffed with apples, was tucked tidily into its roaster pan and lovingly anointed with oil before going into the oven at 9:30 sharp.  The sweet potato casserole and Yvie’s special recipe dressing followed two hours later.  The potatoes were boiled and mashed, and the bread, the green beans, and the cranberry jello mold all took their place on the table like planets of kitchen conviviality converging miraculously on a single point.  Everything seemed to be ready at the same time.

That’s when I said it.

“Wow, I can’t believe everything is turning out so perfectly my very first time!”

The last thing left to do was to sprinkle baby marshmallows across the top of the hot sweet potatoes and heat them to a bubbly, delicious golden brown under the broiler.

Theoretically.

In actuality, I turned my back on the broiler to put the bread in the bread basket, only to hear Paul, who was carving the turkey, ask, “Why is that back burner smoking?”

He opened the oven door to check on the potatoes, and was nearly engulfed in a ball of flames.

“F-f-fire!  It’s on FIRE!” he sputtered, and looked around for something he could use to put it out.  His dad swept into the kitchen, grabbed a potholder, and quickly moved the flaming pan to the bottom rack before closing the door on it.

It turned out that I had set the top rack in the oven too high when I moved it to make room for the turkey.  As the marshmallows swelled in the heat, they made contact with the glowing red heating element and burst into flames.

When the fire finally subsided, the whole top of the casserole was charred black and crisp.

Thankfully, the fire had spent its rage on the sugary topping while leaving the potatoes themselves unharmed.  I was able to scrape off the entire barbecued top layer and start over with all new marshmallows.

Clearly realizing that I needed more supervision in the kitchen, Paul’s dad watched over the second browning attempt himself.

It’s a good thing he did.  The second try turned out just right.

Behold!   The (Almost) Perfect First Ever Notes on a Napkin Family Christmas Dinner:

My favorite Christmas gift: NOT burning down our first home less than a year after moving into it.

Now I just have to endure a lifetime of family jokes about my Twice-Baked Sweet Potato Casserole recipe.

Club Rulez

Overheard from the backseat as I was driving the kids to school this morning:

Katie:  Hey, Caleb…let’s make up a secret club!  You and I can be the members.

Caleb:  Okay!  (He’s always game for just about anything his sister suggests.  I wonder how long that will last.)

Katie:  First we need to make up some rules for the club.  What rules do you think we should have?

Me (totally eavesdropping and interrupting, but thinking of my own childhood secret club experiences): How about “Don’t be mean”?

Katie:  Yes.  That’s a good one.  What else?

Caleb:  No smoking!  (I stifle a giggle.)

Katie:  Okay…  So we’ve got “no being mean” and “no smoking”.  Can you think of any  more?

*both think in silence for a while*

Katie:  Well, I guess we don’t have to have anoth–

Caleb (triumphantly):  “NO CARVING ON THE WALLS!”

Katie (after pondering for a moment):  How about “No destroying the house in any way”?

Caleb: Yeah.

***

I don’t know if I should be scared that he thought of that rule, or just relieved that it made the cut.

It’s a Major Award!

As you might remember, after slaving over a hot keyboard for thirty days in pursuit of that most noble of goals–completing NaBloPoMo 2009–I was pretty jazzed about the possibility of winning one of the fabulous prizes being offered on the official NaBlo site.  Alas and alack, whoever performed the random drawings utterly failed to pull my name out of the hat.  No prize for me.

Until today.

This morning, Kathy walked into my office and, with much fanfare, presented me with this bag, festively festooned with this garland of…disco balls.

My very own NaBloPoMo prize!  Isn’t she awesome?  Inside there were two splendid things.  One: Kathy’s famous chocolate-covered pretzels.  These did not make it home to share with the rest of the family.  Oopsies.

Two:  this book, which I’ve been dying to read ever since I stumbled across it on some geeky website months ago.  (Get it?  “Dying” to read?  Or maybe I should have said “undying” to read.  Hahahahaha!  I slay me!  Get it?  “Slay”?  Am I hilarious, or what?)

Thank you so much, Kathy!  You…complete me.

(Okay, maybe not.  But you certainly know what I like!  I think this might even make up for that little King incident a few weeks ago.)

QotD

“For what we need to know, of course, is not just that God exists, not just that beyond the steely brightness of the stars there is a cosmic intelligence of some kind that keeps the whole show going, but that there is a God right here in the thick of our day-by-day lives who may not be writing messages about himself in the stars but in one way or another is trying to get messages through our blindness as we move around down here, knee-deep in the fragrant muck and misery and marvel of the world.  It is not objective proof of God’s existence that we want, but the experience of God’s presence.  That is the miracle we are really after, and that is also, I think, the miracle that we really get.”

–Frederick Buechner, The Magnificent Defeat

Heart (not the 80’s femme rock band)

I can finally give you an update on the heart palpitations I experienced a few weeks ago.

Last Monday, I was fitted with a 24-hour Holter Monitor to allow my doctor to monitor my heart activity for erratic behavior.  There were electrodes stuck to my chest and ribs, and wires trailed out from under my shirt, connected to a small box that I had to carry around in my pocket.  Unfortunately, the wires were a yellowish color that didn’t go with anything I was wearing.  It seems whoever orders the medical supplies for the practice isn’t very fashion forward.  When I got back to work, the school kids were very interested in what was going on with all of that hardware.  I told some of Caleb’s classmates that I was being wired for bionic arms as part of a secret government experiment.

Tuesday, I met with the cardiologist.  He asked me for my personal health history going back to my first cell division, and then ordered a chest x-ray and a blood draw to check for artery blockage risk factors.  The x-ray tech told me my bones were very photogenic.

Thursday, I had to go back to the cardiologist for a stress test.  More electrodes were plastered to my chest (right on top of the rashes the first ones gave me); then a nurse and an ultrasound tech made me run on a treadmill until I was about to throw up.  Just when I had forgotten the feeling of having oxygen in my lungs, they tipped me onto an examination table and jabbed me in the ribs with an ultrasound wand to make sure all the blood was freely pumping.  It was.  If someone had punctured me with a pin just then, I think I would have emptied like a balloon in five seconds flat.

Today, the verdict is in.  Clean bill of health.  The cardiologist could find no evidence of any underlying heart problems.  My palpitations were most likely caused by a combination of too much caffeine and poorly handled stress.

I’ve cut caffeine completely out of my diet, which has helped a lot.  And my stress levels have receded since the hustle and bustle of holiday preparations have calmed down.

However, I’m still a little disappointed that I’m not really getting bionic arms.  I sure could use those around the house.

I Did It!

Strike up the band and throw the confetti!  Today is the last day of NaBloPoMo 2009, and I am proud to say that I didn’t miss a single day!

Sure, some of my posts were dryer than the Sahara, but that’s not important.  What’s important is that…um…well…

Hmmm…

Oh!  Oh!  I know!  Prizes!  That’s right–there are prizes!  And since I faithfully completed NaBloPoMo (boring posts and all), I am eligible to win a Sock Zombie.  Or a hand embroidered bookmark.  Or perhaps an angry mime rabbit.

Between you and me, I’ve been wanting one of those Sock Zombies for years now.

At the very least, though, I get a fancy new blog badge to put on my sidebar over there. Go ahead; check it out.  I’ll wait… *hums tunelessly* …

Awesome, right?  I know, I know.

It’s a prestige thing.