how will I deal?

I can't believe this is happening. She's sick and I feel our time together is short. She's had so many surgeries already. When it's warm she wants to play but when it's cold she won't move. So many years together. So many places and so many memories. The cost is getting too high. My beloved car may soon sputter it's last exhaustive breath.

According to the sticker on the back window, my car rolled off the assembly line and out of an Atlanta Ford car manufacturing plant in May of 1996. She is a third generation Taurus SHO. I know you may be reeling and impressed by the fact that I own such an exquisite machine. A machine that commands respect. There have been many snap-neck-double-takes when I pass by as if the stunned onlookers were saying "was that a... no way, hold it, wait, yeah I can't believe I actually saw one. Wow!" There weren't many made. Her and I were a unique couple.

I knew I had to have her after the initial test drive. The throaty purr of her exhaust coupled with her unlimited engine power and the clarity and amplitude of the mind-numbing six-speaker stereo sealed the deal. I bought her at a Ford dealership in Kutztown, PA. I was going to be the second owner of this beauty. The salesman who sold her to me was the actual owner of the car and there was a seriousness and sadness in his demeanor that reflected his inability to come to terms with his dreaded departure from his machine masterpiece. With tears in his eyes and a frog in his throat he repeatedly asked me if I was sure I could handle the responsibility and respect, honor and embrace the Code of SHO Ownership. I assured him I could and after I signed on the line we had a brief swearing-in-to-the-club ceremony witnessed by the sales manager and an envious customer. I permitted him a private goodbye with his former girlfriend and with a heavy heart he handed me her keys at 7:14 pm on November 15th, 1999. Our love affair had begun.

In the ten years since our initial meeting we have had many experiences together. Many good, few bad. She has made many concessions and even let me wander from the code when my human family expanded which made our economic situation get tighter. She let me replace her z-rated low profile tires for a more affordable and durable set of rubber. It kind of made her look like Stacy Kiebler with fat ankles, but she didn't mind. She let me switch from 93 to 91 octane during the fuel greed-a-thon and didn't complain. She let my brother Mark, who was the best man at my wedding, drive me to my... wedding. She knew I had known Sue much longer than I had known her, but I sensed a little jealousy nontheless.

She was fiercely loyal. One day, I stopped at a local convenience store. The pierced-nose Goth girl behind the counter asked me how a stud like myself could drive such a girly car like a four-door Taurus with a tiny spoiler on the back. A month later I noticed I hadn't seen that Gothy girl in a while. Until I saw that girl's face on a milk carton. She swears she had nothing to do with it. I know nothing.

She got sick about a year ago. The doctors quickly diagnosed a bad transmission, so I forked out the cash to have a new one installed. She was a new lady again and I was happy.

Until one bitterly cold morning three weeks ago. I tried to start her but she just belched and coughed. I tried again with the same result. I asked her what was wrong and she told me her belly hurt. I quickly called all the doctors, specialists and researchers I could find and inquired about our situation. They said there was probably ice in the tank from moisture getting in one way or another. They said I should try again when the weather gets warmer and in the meantime, give her a water-negating additive to help her feel better. And hope for the best.

I didn't know how to give her the news. I tip-toed around for a bit until she had enough and told me to spill it. I told her about the possible hole in her tank and she became distraught. She told me of her dreams to go head-to-head with Dale Jr. at Daytona and dropping the hammer on the German autobahn that may go unfulfilled. All with me at the wheel. I told her I was sorry for not keeping her in the garage. I promised I was going to do all I can to be in her company for as long as I could, within reason. I told her how I loved her passing power and how she looked in her black bra. We cried.

Now all we can do is wait. We are waiting for warmer days and hoping for the best. For love or wallet? The pressure is heart-breaking.

it only gets better

I am sure I speak for all of us dads that there are milestones in a dad's life that have significant meaning. Many months of pregnancy, the birth, going from formula or breast milk to moo milk, that first step, that first word, that first conversation and finally fitting our little ones into "big-boy pants".
Disclaimer: Notice I said dad or dad's. If any mommies happen to read this I assure you I am not selling you short. I know that the pregnancy and birth are much more than significant. What you guys do is beyond amazing and all mommies are held in such high-regard and respected by the author that I am sure your farts smell of butternut ice cream. I bow in reverence.

Ok. Let's get back to a dad's point of view and the whole reason I wanted to sit down and write today. We took our oldest son, Eric, to his first day of school in September for orientation. There, with us in the back of the room I witnessed him sitting at his desk, guarded and meek, squeaking mostly inaudible replies to his new teacher's questions. It was very difficult for me to see him in a withdrawn state. I thought maybe I should come to school with him everyday and explain everything; give him some iron-clad encouragement. I was worried. How could we send him out into the world at three years old without the protective umbrella and oversight of mom and dad?

Sue and I had our very first parent-teacher conference on Jan. 29th. The parent-teacher process at this school is very interesting. We were told to come at 8:45 am and the meeting will last for 15 minutes at which time the next set of parents will come in. So we go, and there we are sitting in a classroom on chairs that are six inches off the floor talking with his two teachers. We learn that Eric is polite and participates, he sings and loves his gym time. The part of Eric's evaluation that struck me the most was a very small comment by the teachers stating that a new boy arrived at school about two months into the year and Eric, along with his best school-mate, let him into their circle of learning and playtime. I am not worried anymore.

I realize now that I wasn't worried about Eric. I was worried about the anxiety I felt of not being able to let go of him for three hours a day, twice a week, to grow intellectually and athletically and actually figure things out for himself. I am pleasantly surprised and proud beyond words.

Thank you Eric for another milestone witnessed. I can't wait for more.



Eric's first report card