It's Too Hard to Say Goodbye

I have had my car for 14 years. It is my first car and it has gone everywhere with me--or rather taken me everywhere. I drove it to my first graduate school classes, pushing the gas to make it to Shakespeare's Comedies and Tragedies on time. It went with me to College Town where it sat outside my very first apartment and braved the ridiculous winters, never once groaning because of the many feet of snow nor throwing me into a spin-a-round when we encountered ice. I welcomed my new husband into the passenger seat (more often driver's seat--and that's not a metaphor in any way). I parked it in front of the building of my new job as an English Professor having just earned my Ph.D. I drove it back and forth from my apartment to my new house, transporting clothes and crafting materials and boxes upon boxes of books. Later,my car reliably took me to the hospital regularly to sit with my daughter as she battled it out in the NICU. And eventually, many months later, I nervously, cautiously drove her to the babysitter on our first solo ride together. Just the other day, as I picked The Popcorn up from school, she ran to a car that was the same color as my car thinking it was my car and revealing that she is learning to distinguish it from other cars. My car has been with me for a long time.

But, now, in spite of its almost-problem free history, it is starting to have some problems. It doesn't always go forward immediately after I press the accelerator and sometimes, it will not only stall, but go backward. It pains me, but we have started looking for a new car.

I want something the same size as my car--economy-size--but DH wants a mid-size car. Really, he wants a cross-over, but that's not going to happen. We went car shopping this past weekend and I test drove a Volkswagen Jetta. Ever since I was a non-licensed teenager, I thought I would want a Jetta. The ride was okay, but I had to press harder on the accelerator than I was used to in order to make it accelerate. DH was concerned that when he had to drive the car, he would not be able to fit in comfortably on long trips. My brother said he should be able to fit; he would just have to leave his manhood outside. Jokes. He got jokes. Anyway,I guess the Jetta is out.

My mother-in-law tried to help me out by telling DH that a professor should be driving a Mercedes. We looked at a sweet white one online. I could see myself behind the wheel in that, shades on, radio playing Nina Simone. Bringing sexy back to the English professors. DH said professors don't drive Mercedes; they ride bikes. I could only laugh because it's true. Especially for someone making an English prof's salary.

So, where does this leave me? I'm taking my car to a transmission shop today and hopefully they tell me, "Oh, you just have this minor (read: cheap) issue and we can fix that right away." Leaving me many more years and miles to go in my car. Maybe, just maybe, it will last long enough for The Popcorn to not only distinguish it from other cars, but eventually drive it, too. Okay, I know that's just wishful thinking.

Changes

I am still marveling in the way life changes you (and I'll probably continue marveling for awhile).

It has been my contention since my friends started having babies that new mothers spend too much time talking about poop. Green poop, yellow poop, brown poop, runny poop, exploding poop, poop in potties, poop smeared on walls, poop that smells like a man's poop (which probably earns it a name other than "poop"). I know I told both my sister-in-law and you, SM, that if you don't stop talking about your kids' poop, I was going to start talking about my own. I figured it was just as appropriate. And I maintained that when I became a mother I would not talk about poop unless it was medically necessary (like "OMG, my child has passed purple poop! Should I call the doctor?"). And because I believe in staying true to my word, I am still maintaining that poop talk is off-limits.

In keeping with my commitment, I will not talk about poop or poopy diapers, but I just have to say that I changed my daughter's diaper for the first time last night. I was terrified and I am convinced that I did not do a good job, but I was so happy that I got to do it. I had watched the nurses do it for days and weeks now and only one suggested that I could do it. When she did, I was scared. My daughter is still under three pounds, she's in an incubator on a ventilator and her oxygen levels drop when people touch her. So, I told that nurse to do it herself. Last night, however, a different nurse said, "In about 5 minutes, you can change her diaper and check her temperature." What?!? She did not give me a choice and went on to tell me in the nicest way that I was the mother and I have to get used to doing those things. So, I had to woman-up.

Because she's in the incubator, I had to place my hands into the doors on the side of the bed. I was trying to work quickly to avoid having the doors open for long (germs and all) and to avoid giving her time to drop her oxygen levels. I also didn't want to hurt her (she's so tiny and delicate). I got the new diaper on and the old one off even though she likes to kick, especially when people touch her. Although I unintentionally made her look like a young hip hopper with her underwear sagging off her bottom, it was a nice experience for me. I got to hit a milestone in parenting, do something for my daughter, and have physical contact with her. And although her oxygen levels did go down briefly, they came back up quickly. Maybe she knew it was me.

So, this was not a story about poop--I haven't changed that much--but it was a story about a diaper change and apparently a change in attitude. I still can't believe I was excited about it and excited to tell the tale.

Keep on livin', I guess.