When it Rains....

The old adage is quite true. On Sunday night, heading out to a dinner I had been looking forward to for most of the day, our beloved Explorer broke down. Seeing the car my dad once drove on the back of a flat bed truck, knowing it was not to be revived, was bad enough. But the messy after math of losing a parent as an only child, and navigating the rugged terrain of a relationship with the surviving parent is like grinding salt into a gaping wound that wont heal.

We arrived home from the ordeal to a thermostat that quit working, in 20 degree arctic conditions. The washing machine that needed a simple belt replacement (that we spent $450 on 3 weeks ago) now needs a new timer, and new knob thanks to a repair man with too many thumbs. The only working garage door has given up. Tuition for Tucker's pre-summer program is due (yes, on Long Island there is not only summer camp but pre-camp, which working parents have no choice but to pay for). A new attorney in our West Coast office has stepped on my toes and I've cried at work.

While we wait to pick up our second new car in less than 2 months, I will tackle the 100 emails in my inbox, cut out my twice weekly trips to Starbucks, and be happy that my sweet son is still smiling.