One More for the Road

Sigh. It's the end of an era, folks.

I'm saying goodbye to my dear, sweet, faithful Jetta.

I still remember when we first got her...Christmas holidays 2001. The cutest little April Fool's Day baby had arrived earlier that year, and after one summer of carting her around in a two-door Honda Civic sans air conditioning (oh poor baby - windows open at 110 km/h racing down Hwy 59), we knew we needed to upgrade to something more in the family way.

The Husband had his heart set on a diesel engine for some strange reason and spied himself a barely-used navy 2000 VW Jetta over at Eastern Nissan.

We should have known when they gave us 1 1/2 keys (one was broken..."but you can still use the automatic lock button on it....") that we were in for it.

Three weeks after we got the car, I was on the side of the road. Minus 30. Just me and my mother-in-law.

We've replaced pretty much every part on that car already. And by "we," I mean The Husband, whose three-inch-thick red manual of "how to fix everything on a Jetta" is well-thumbed and worn. He's done timing belts. Relays. Glove compartments. Swapped out the suspension.

He bought me new injectors for our anniversary one year. So I could go faster.

New cup holders after I broke the old ones. Rebuilt alternators (plural - we can't seem to keep 'em). Emergency brake cables. Rotors. Brakes (a few times). Bushings.

But this is not to say that our local dealerships haven't gotten some shop rate lovin'. I seem to be an accident magnet. There was that time I hit the bus bench. And the time I got hit-and-ran in the West Acres parking lot. The time I tore the belly-pan to shreds en route to a Rudy Wiebe reading at the Mennonite Museum.

The time I lost the mudflap (no idea when that was...it's just not there anymore).

The time I got rear-ended yet again. Oh wait - that was three weeks ago.

(Apparently I'm the only person who decides that her car needs to be sold so she gets herself a free car wash by being in an accident and getting it as part of the insurance claim. Now THAT'S some hardcore frugal right there.)

But now, despite my protests that she's still PERFECTLY fine and that she's got YEARS and MILES left on her and that I want to teach my kids to drive in that car, The Husband has decided that it is time to go. We're both upgrading - he to the fancy-schmancy new car.

Me to the next Jetta in line - the Jetta 2004.

(Which I've already worn in. I broke the side mirror on it last winter. So we're already on good terms.)

As much as my "new" car is probably a bit better in the burning-oil, leaking-coolant, burned-out-dash-lights, visible-rust department, I'm definitely going to miss the old girl.

We're bestest buds. We both creak. We both prefer slow and steady. We both think that shifting gears should be loose and easy. Plus she's got the rockingest cup holders.

(The Husband knows of my love for the cup holders. So he installed the good kind in my "new" car. Which means that I can now have FOUR drinks within reach at all time.)

And so tonight, as we drive up to Canada for Easter, we'll be our own little caravan. A funeral procession, if you will. I'll go on ahead while The Husband follows with the honour guard.

I'll settle back in my well-worn seat and set the cruise control and reach for my coffee and we'll ride into the sunset for one last drive. I'll say my goodbyes and we'll relive all our many adventures. I'll get misty-eyed as I picture her with a "For Sale" sign in the window and I'll promise to find her a good home.

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SERIOUSLY?!

It feels like I say this every day.

When I look at the calendar...

How can it possibly be April already? I was barely aware that it was March. And now my calendar page has gone all flippy again.

When I look outside...

Heh heh. Sorry Old Man Winter. Looks like you done got beat early this year. The grass is green, the birds are singing, and even the trees are budding and blossoming. The parkas have already been put away for the year and our used-three-times snowblower is in storage.

When I look at my kids...

We had a birthday here this weekend. 11?! It seems unpossible. And yet, today when we went shoe shopping, we didn't even bother with the kids' section. (Although she's still my baby. Every night she thanks Jesus for "Mom and Mom Teddy.")

And my behemoth of a son? He's giving his sister a run for her money. Except when it's been awhile since he's had a haircut and he's walking around with a haystack on his head that adds a couple of inches. Then people start asking me if I have twins.

When I look at the clock...

I've been given a temporary project at work that, while super fun and amazing and fabulous experience, nevertheless takes up 85% of my total brain capacity. (This is causing a bit of an issue around here since the rest of my life usually takes up at least 50%.) Every day flies by. It feels like it's time for lunch just after my morning coffee and then I blink and it's 3:00.

I've heard life with young kids described as "long days and short years." True to what everyone said about time accelerating as you get older, I feel like I've now reached the "short days and short years" phase of life. This school year just started yet we're counting down the days to the end of year. Just yesterday we finally got the kids into the right elementary school and now The Girl is excited about graduating from fifth grade and heading off to middle school next year.

(Middle. School. Hold me...)

Every Friday, as I enjoy my bestest moment of the week and take the elevator down after work, thinking about having the whole weekend ahead of me, I actually get a wee bit sad thinking about how soon Monday is going to come. But now it's gotten to the point that when the Monday blues hit, I say, "oh, just hang on a sec...I just have to look at this design...." and suddenly I'm on that elevator, hitting "L" on a Friday afternoon again.

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