My Life Has Come to This

I’ve been informed that today is National Bike to Work Day.

As many of you know, I wrote in March about how I was thinking of riding a bike to and from work several days a week in an attempt to save money at the pump and get fit. Can I just say that the very notion of my riding a bike to work might have been the singled dopiest idea I’d ever come up with in thirty-five years of dreaming up stupid ideas?

I arrived at this conclusion one afternoon while sitting at a stoplight on the way home from work. As I waited for the stoplight to favor me, I saw a man and woman riding unicycles across the intersection of Proposed Bike Route #4.  Yes, I said unicycles.  You know…the bikes that don’t have handlebars or a second wheel? Stupid, I know.

Both people were struggling to cross before the light turned against them. I found myself hoping they’d fail, that traffic would bear down on them quickly, forcing the couple to jump ship just in time to watch their stupidcycles get crushed beneath a semi. Harsh? Yes, but these characters were invading my bike route – the route that I’d spent weeks researching and travelling and timing and adjusting and travelling all over again. Proposed Bike Route #4 was not theirs.

No such luck.

Upon my arrival home that day, I decided to give the bike another shot. It didn’t reciprocate. The bike hates my guts. So I humbly come to you to say that there will be no riding one to work any day, let alone on a day when the rest of the nation has decided to make a mockery out of me.

Instead I’m compelled to tell you that my life has come to this: Walking on the treadmill with cellophane wrapped around my belly after an intense P90X workout. Yes, I feel like Sunday’s leftover pork roast when I hit the gym, but it was either this or Skinnygirl Margaritas. I went with the option I felt would dock me the least points on my steadily declining Man Card. The jury is still out.

*Please insert jokes in the comment section below. Ridicule from the usual members of the Peanut Gallery gladly accepted, but I’d like to hear from some of my newer readers. Winner will receive nothing but my utmost respect. And contempt.*

**Kacie, this does not apply to you as I am restricting your commenting privileges. Love, Daddy.**

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Teen of My Heart

My daughter has betrayed me. Again.

Today, without first asking for my permission, Kacie has entered the world of teenagerdom – or teenager dumb. Either or. And both, really.

This is where, for the next six years, she’s made the commitment to make my life hell. By enlisting in the not-so-clandestine organization T.E.E.N. she’s accepted a seven year mission to push limits to the extreme and force her mother and me to create new limits where there once were none.

I know nothing about raising a teenage girl. I was barely coping with being a parent in general, when I just had “kids.” It was okay before because I knew what it was like to be a kid – mainly because I still am one. I was finally getting it down. Coming into my own.

But this is different.

I don’t speak Period or Feminine Hygiene Product or ­­­Miniskirts & High Heels. I don’t know what it’s like to have your heart broken by some boy who’s decided just eighteen hours after the world’s longest makeout session at a party you didn’t even have permission to be at in the first place that he likes your best friend better than he does you.

I can’t ask my mom for advice. Yes, she raised five kids (three of which were girls), but she’d be zero help. Her only response would be: “Remember when I told you this day would come? Well, it’s here and I’m not even going to pretend to feel sorry for you.”

Surely there’s a support group out there to help walk me through this. Like a Craigslist for dads. Maybe Dadslist? Mydaughterbrokemyheart.com? Suckstobeme.org?

When I looked at her this morning it was like a stranger was staring back at me, smiling, waiting for me to make the first move even though she’d already made it. All I could do was kiss her on the head and tell her to have a good day and then quickly bail before the floodgates opened and my mascara started to smear.

But at some point in the next few hours I have to go home and face her. No matter how hard I may try to pretend today like nothing’s changed, everything’s changed. I’ll learn to be okay with it. Eventually. Just not today.

Kacie – I love you. You’re more than anything I could have hoped for and better than anything I’ll ever deserve. But you’re grounded.

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Taking Back Television

This is where, if I were a real man, I’d say that my wife is right. But I’m not and to be quite honest am perfectly okay with that.

She’s been pestering me to get rid of some (all) of the TVs in our possession, or at the very least dumb down our cable subscription. I’ve said it before -- that’s just a horrible idea on so many levels. But as farfetched as her drastic measures come off, I’m thinking there’s a solution somewhere within the madness that could work if it means my regaining control of the remote.

My recent epiphany stems from two separate instances yesterday that made me realize I watch, or at least hear, too many children’s television shows on a daily basis. These shows all have catchy tunes that get stuck in your head like a bad song from the 90’s. And because the shows and even the commercials are played on what seems like a continuous loop, it’s easy to find yourself repeating lines of dialogue (or shouting them when Swiper is swiping) in unison with your kid without even realizing you’re doing it.

I submit for the defense:

Instance One

A friend and I are at work discussing possible lunch options. He’s been begging me to go out to eat with him. By begging, I mean giving me a hard time because of the diet I’ve been on for the last three weeks and my decision to punt foods that helped put me in my current dietary predicament. It’s become part of our daily shtick.

He suggests burgers. Ice cream. Tasty chicken tenders, fries, and sweet tea from Raising Cane’s (which I would absolutely love to say yes to but am putting off for a few more weeks). Burritos de Freebirds. I say no to all. He rolls his eyes, displeased in my new lifestyle choices and how they now affect him.

He turns back to his computer and pouts. And by pouts, I mean drops the subject and gets back to work because he really had no intention of going out for lunch anyways because he’d brought his. I decide to turn the table and get his hopes up for an hour-long jailbreak from the office.

Me: What about Ming-Ming.

David: Huh?

Me: For lunch.

David: Ming-Ming?

Me: The Asian restaurant by Target??

David: (confused) You mean NewNew???

Me: Oh, right. Ming Ming is the duck on Wonder Pets…

Instance Two

Last night I’m taking my final Short Fiction test of the semester. For the life of me I cannot remember several answers to what should be some pretty easy questions. My mind was beyond blank.

There was one question in particular that asked about David Barthelme’s short story “The School” and what kind of animal walked into the classroom at the end which caused the kids to go crazy. Sounds simple enough, right? Nope. All I could come up with was a dinosaur. Why a dinosaur, you ask? I was picturing the story as it played out in my head, which turns out really wasn’t the story by David Barthelme at all but instead an episode of Dino Dan.

The culprit is Nick Jr., which is always on at our house. And while it’s a pretty good influence on my kid as far as television is concerned, I’d really like Brady to watch a little more in the way of classic cartoons and a little less pre-school entertainment while I’m around. I mean, a 35-year-old man singing the theme song for Scooby Doo out in public is a little less creepy than one singing “We had a great day. It was a super way, to spend some time together” from the Fresh Beat Band.

Something has to be done while I still have a tiny bit of dignity left.

My proposal? Not to take television away from the kids but to take it back period. Ground Brady from television just long enough that he moves on to kid shows that are more age appropriate for me to openly enjoy and publicly reference. Make him read instead. Sure, he’s only four but there’s no reason to think he can’t teach himself how to read. I mean, the boy already knows ‘hat’ and ‘cat’ and ‘dog.’ This way, should he be able to pick up on a word like ‘superfluous’ somewhere between Dr. Seuss and Ernest Hemingway, making me look like a genius.

You’re welcome, dear.

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Brace For It

Today I have taken the plunge deeper into debt, and in doing so, have totally fooked myself when it comes time for Kacie to start dating.

You see, she’s getting braces. Right now, actually.

Braces are something Kacie’s wanted for a while. I tell my daughter, like most fathers tell their own daughters, that I think she’s gorgeous. She says that’s not why she wants braces. Instead she says that she just wants to have better teeth, a better smile. I can buy that, I suppose.

For me though, it’s Kacie’s eyes that have always had a way of doing the smiling for her, if that makes sense. It’s something I’ve loved about her from Day One – the way the corners of her eyes crinkle just a tiny bit and her blue eyes seem to become even bluer when she’s happy. But now, because we’ve succumbed to doing right by her teeth, Traci and I are arming our firstborn with a toothy smile that’s going to make her even more beautiful than she already is. I may as well start saving now for the wedding. Sorry, Milky Way. I can no longer afford to entertain you or your other friends from the candy barrio.

Last night I asked Kacie if she was nervous. She wasn’t.

I asked if she thought it’d hurt. She wasn’t worried about that either – she just wanted to finally be able to punt the spacer she’d been using the last two weeks. She said that’s what hurt.

I asked if she was afraid of getting teased. I called her “metal mouth” and “brace face” and something else that I can’t think of offhand. I wanted to test her, to see if she was ready for the possible ridicule that could come with such a commitment.

“Is that all you’ve got, Dad?” She wasn’t fazed. “You’re a writer. I thought you’d be better at this.”

“It’s ‘Daddy,’ just so you know.”

“Dad,” she said with a soft, emphatic tone.

She smiled. My heart tried to give in.

“Um, no. Try again.”

“Fine. And no, I’m not afraid.”

“Okay, I’m glad. Now go finish your homework. But it’s ‘Daddy.’ Got it?”

“Got it,” she said, disappearing into the hallway. “Dad…”

Why wasn’t Kacie nervous or worried or afraid like I was? How, at twelve, could she be so confident about herself and the decision she’d made to get them? Why can’t I be as confident at times as she is?

And who gave her permission to stop calling me “Daddy?” Not me, of course. Was this some evil plot orchestrated by my wife because the kids stopped calling her “Mommy” some time ago? Sorry. I know. Focus.

So now I’m waiting, anxiously, for someone to call or email or text or something and say that everything’s okay…that despite having several months’ salary wired into her mouth now, my little girl is good to go – no different from when I saw her just a few hours ago when I poked my head in her bedroom and blew her a kiss goodbye before leaving for work.

More important than her well-being, I need Kacie to hurry up while she’s still groggy and sign the agreement I had drafted this morning that specifically forbids her from falling in love and leaving me one day because some dopey kid thinks she has a beautiful smile and can’t live without her. It’s going to happen. Just ask my father-in-law.

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Who Needs You, Babies?

I love television. It’s an actual part of who I am.

My wife hates this. If it were up to her, we wouldn’t own a single TV. Talk about irrational.

When I was a kid, I used to get grounded a lot. Part of that grounding was the relinquishment of TV privileges. But I, like every child, became smarter than my parents.

Tired of missing episodes of Quantum Leap, My Two Dads, and Cheers I set out to take a proactive stance. I started tape recording my favorite shows so that I could listen to them when watching was prohibited, in effect beating the system.

It got to the point where I didn’t even need to see the shows; I knew the main characters on each by heart. I could imagine the entire episode solely from the dialogue. To this day I vividly remember how Sam Malone was confounded when Rebecca asked why more men couldn’t send flowers. He knew Mormons couldn’t dance, but unable to send flowers?

Having said this, don’t mistake my love of television for a willingness to watch crap. My attention span is limited, and my patience almost nil. I need some sort of story. Good dialogue and well created characters help too. Every once in a while I let my guard down though, and the result isn’t one I’m usually proud of – yet here I am outing myself to the world.

While flipping through the channels over the weekend I landed on One Born Every Minute. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the show, you probably don’t need me to say anything more after I tell you it’s on Lifetime. But just in case the obvious escapes you or you just want me to come out and say it, the show is about childbirth. Yes, childbirth. Sadly, 200+ channels and this was the best I could do on a Sunday evening.

Dear Brad,

We regret to inform you that your Man Card has been revoked and membership canceled. Please discontinue use effective immediately.

Sincerely,

Your Ego

PS – Please check your estrogen levels.

I watched alone for the first few minutes, but eventually the rest of the clan trickled in before the show’s halfway point.

There were three women featured: A woman having her first child, one having her fifth, and the last on her second surrogacy.

The more we watched, the more each of us became involved for our own reasons. Traci remembered the intimacy she felt when carrying our little tax deductions. Kacie watched with a sort of confliction, thinking another kid in the family might not be so bad, but her limited knowledge of the conceiving process creeped her out. My thoughts were somewhere in the middle of longing for another baby to fall asleep on my chest each night and not wanting any part of adding to our grocery bill because the first two betrayed me and no longer fit snuggly on my chest.

“I want two babies,” Brady said, as if we didn’t already know what was on his mind while he watched.

“They’re sleeping in your room, Brady,” Kacie said.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yes, Brady. I’ve had to share a room with you. I’m not sharing a room with them.”

“Yes you are.” I’m really going to have to sign this kid up in debate class. He’s that good.

I looked at Kacie and shook my head, pleading with her to let it go. There was no need to perpetuate the divvying up of our current lack of bedroom space. She grabbed one of the chair pillows from behind her and squeezed the life out of it. She feels we take his side a lot. I wanted to say something poetic, something that a dad totally in love with his baby girl should be able to come up with on the fly. I had nothing.

The show resumed. I let out a heavy exhale. Bullet dodged.

“And a puppy,” Brady finished, adding his own period to the matter, just in case we hadn’t heard him any of the 247 other times he’d brought it up.

As the show progressed, our children saw for the first time a glimpse of what childbirth involves. They heard the screams. They witnessed the tears. They saw, despite Lifetime’s best efforts to blur it out, where babies come from. They were horrified.

Traci and I looked at each of them, knowing their facial expressions would be worth the price of admission. Kacie pulled the pillow even closer to her – trying to balance the maternal feelings with those of disgust. Brady was spread out on the floor, both hands cupped under his chin, propping his head up. His wide eyes didn’t blink and his gaping mouth struggled for something to say.

“Those babies are not coming out of me!” he shouted, staring in my direction, no longer suffering from a lack of words.

The girls laughed. Sure it was funny, but they weren’t the ones being asked to fall on their swords and birth him ready-made companions to play Hot Wheels with. No, this was apparently a job for Daddy…all because I love television more than the air I breathe and couldn’t just turn it off for an hour.

Dear Lifetime,

Why do you have to show such emotionally charged movies and television series that suck me in? Keep up the good work!

Sincerely,

Man Cardless in Dallas

PS – Are you hiring new writers? Please let me know. Thanks.

Now, much like Sam Malone, I find myself wondering what else more men don’t do.

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Hi, Normal. Remember Me?

Parenthood should come with a warning label: Last chance to turn back. Life is about to change. Forever.

Yes, being a dad is pretty awesome…at times…when you’re not feeling useless because you can’t help your kid with her math homework, despite having the answers to odd numbered questions in the back of the book.

And whose bright idea was that? Why can’t the answers for both the odd and even numbered questions be in the back? I mean, aren’t we teaching our children to be quitters if they’re only able to do half of their math homework?

But I digress – which I find myself doing a lot of, as I’m sure many of you who regularly read this already know.

Fatherdom hasn’t come with any hard or fast rules.

Some days I’m totally absorbed in the kids, but there are often days that I’m totally absorbed in me. I guess the hardest part of teaching your kids about growing up is admitting that you haven’t really figured out how to do it yourself.

One particular aspect of raising children I really haven’t gotten down is potty-training. Kacie’s been good and potty-trained for some time now, so I can’t exactly remember how difficult or not it was with her, but Brady is definitely not Sunday morning. He’s been anything but easy.

The kid’s four. And-a-half. He’s great during the day, but somewhere in the early morning hours it’s like the animals on his pajama bottoms have to load up two-by-two and head for higher ground.

The worst part is the pooping. Take the other night for instance.

Traci and I are watching a movie. Fittingly Life as We Know It.

She comments that Brady has been in the bathroom longer than necessary for normal bathroom activities, and since he doesn’t yet have a magazine subscription she believes something’s up.

I leave the comfortability of my chair in front of the television to investigate.

Wasting no time with subtlety, I barge into the bathroom.

I expect to see him playing in the sink, making “donuts” with wads of toilet paper. I think maybe he’s fixing his hair, trying his best to be as good looking as Daddy. Perhaps he’s playing in Kacie’s makeup.

None of those things is happening. I wish any one of those three things would have been happening. He’s standing in front of the toilet, Spiderman underwear around his ankles, trying to wipe himself. Less than an inch from his right foot is a ball of poo.

“Brady, stop!” I yell, barking out orders like Major Dad.

“Go,” is all Brady can say. He’s embarrassed and won’t make eye contact. I don’t blame him.

“It’s okay, son. Just stop and let me finish – you’re about to step in poop.” It’s bad enough wiping someone else’s behind, but cleaning poop from their foot? Pass.

“No, you’re stepping in poop,” he says, not breaking focus from cleaning himself.

He gets smart-alleck like this sometimes. Who’s to say where my son gets it from, but I know enough to confidently say that I am not stepping in poop. I’ve checked, and the rogue turd is a good six inches from me.

Brady loses his balance and is forced to shift to the right. Again he nearly misses stepping in doo. Again I warn him to be still so I can help.

“NO,” he insists, “you’re stepping in poop.”

“Brady, I am not stepping in poop.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes you are.” The argumentative thing I’m certain he gets from his mom.

“I’m not standing in –”

He points to the ground, beneath my left foot.

“- poop. I’m standing in poop?”

“Told ya,” he says in a sing-song kind of way.

Footsteps – a stampede of footsteps to be more precise – pound the floor of our tiny apartment like the sound of thundering hooves beating down the deserted plains. I feel like I’m on the set of Dances with Wolves. Tatonka! Tatonka!

I look away. Quickly. I want to throw up.

The girls loiter in the hallway, neither of them of any use because neither of them wants any part of being me at the moment. Instead they watch, like rubbernecking vampires waiting for a formal invitation to come inside.

“Get it off. Get it off! Get it off!!” There. Invitation sent. Get in here and help. Please?

I stick my foot in the toilet, hoping the turd will lose interest and just fall off. Nothing. I will it to drop off. Still nothing. Fail.

Doing a sorry imitation of a peg-legged hip-hop routine, I dance around on my right foot, shaking the left one desperately in the toilet bowl, hoping to dislodge the parasite. Like a random chewed up piece of bubble gum that searched out an entire parking lot of possibilities until finding your favorite pair of tennis shoes, it’s stuck and has no intentions coming off.

“I’m serious,” I say, grabbing hold of the sink for some kind of support seeing as how I’m getting very little elsewhere. The twelve-by-seven room closes in on me. I really want to throw up.

More laughter. It’s really not that funny. But seriously, you should come join the party and help your daddy.

Kacie backs up, distancing herself from the hilarity of a poop patty being stuck to her father’s bare foot. Just when I need her most, she pulls a Switzerland in the Sovereign Nation of Dad’s coup d’état against her brother’s poo. I’ll remember that the next time she wants to do anything that sounds remotely fun.

Traci finally musters the courage to enter, turning her head in such a manner to avoid direct eye contact with my foot’s new friend and the stench which is sure to cause a gag reflex or two of her own.

She grabs for the flushable wipes from the top of the toilet tank, but instead of cleaning my foot, cleans the skidmarks from the side of the toilet.

“Hey. My foot? You know, the one with the poop putting inappropriate moves on it? How about we give my foot a Line Hopper Pass so it’s next. Okay?” No, honey, I don’t mind taking a back seat to the toilet. Thanks.

Afraid of being asked to participate in the eviction process underway in her bathroom, Kacie pins herself against the hallway wall, almost as if she pushes hard enough the wall will spin around like in Scooby-Doo and she’ll magically appear in the other room. Perhaps she’s on to something. Maybe if I flush the toilet I’ll be sucked in and transported back to five minutes ago when life was normal.

But that’s just it. Parenthood is anything but normal. It’s hard. Crazy. Frustrating. Sometimes a little icky. There are moments that absolutely break your heart and others that make you wish for a time machine so you can do them again and again and again. And just when you think you’ve seen everything, parenthood throws yet another curveball that you hope to somehow get a piece of just to keep the at-bat alive.

Hello. My name is Brad Daddy, and I’ve long since forgotten what normal feels like.

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Diary of a Mad Flabby Man

Sunday, 7:28AM – Trial Run

After approximately twenty minutes of preparation, I’m finally ready for my first go at riding a bicycle to work.  A one-way trial run.

I step outside, into the brisk morning air. Just minutes before I had been assured by the local news that I would enjoy a comfortable sixty-four degree start to my day. The sting of the wind’s chill against my bare arms reminds me that I am too much of a wimp to brave such Siberianesque temperatures.

I go back inside.

Sunday, 7:36AM – Trial Run 2.0

After approximately twenty-eight minutes of preparation, I am finally, finally ready for my first go at riding a bicycle to work. A one-way trial run.

I step outside into the brisk morning air. Just minutes before I had been assured by the local news that I would enjoy a comfortable sixty-four degree start to my day. Immune to the wind’s chilling advances, I feel confident the tired long-sleeved t-shirt Traci had been wanting me to get rid of for years would provide adequate protection against such Siberianesque temperatures.

Before climbing aboard the bike borrowed from my father-in-law, I fight with the helmet’s straps as they stubbornly require a certain degree of fiddle-farting with. It seems the previous user preferred to wear the helmet in Strangulation Mode.

Three minutes later I’m riding a real bicycle for the first time in over a decade.

Sunday, 7:43AM

My thighs begin to burn as I slow down to turn left onto what will be my longest single stretch of road between home and work.

The encouraging words of Co-worker #1 echo through my mind as I push through the pain. “Yeah, riding a recumbent bike is not like riding a real bike. You should probably try riding a real bike first.”

The more I pedal to forget, the more I remember parts of various conversations or input from other concerned co-workers regarding how good or bad of an idea riding a bicycle thirteen miles to work really is.

Co-worker #2: Isn’t thirteen miles a little too far?

Co-worker #3: Your butt’s gonna be sore.

Co-worker #2: Aren’t you too out of shape to do something like that?

Co-worker #4: Won’t you smell?

Co-worker #1: You should probably get a tube repair kit.

Co-worker #3: What if it rains?

Co-worker #2: That’s where we come into play, Co-worker #3.

Co-worker #3: Really though. What if it starts raining on you at like mile three?

Co-worker #1: You should probably get a poncho too.

Co-worker #2: Can I have your cubicle if you die?

Co-worker #3 (disapprovingly): Co-worker #2…

Co-worker #4: Are you sure you won’t smell?

Even the woman who brought me into the world finds humor in all of this. She’d sent an email that read “Ouch. The family is being cruel. If you’re gonna do it, may as well do it in style.” Attached was a picture of a four-wheeled bicycle - which I guess makes it a quadricycle - with a roof. Seriously, Mom...e tu? Brutal.

I’ve basically started telling anyone I come into contact with that they have the right to remain silent and that everything they say can and most likely will be used against them in a court of blog.

Unsure if I’ll be able to start after stopping, my mind barks out orders for my legs to keep pedaling, knowing that if they don’t mind at this moment, it won’t matter what my mind tells them in the future. My legs obey. Reluctantly.

I shoot left through the red light and survey my surroundings for any signs of 5-0. Nothing. Good. I don’t have the energy to take the initiative in starting a three-hour chase through the neighborhoods of Frisco.

Sunday, 7:47AM

My thighs are killing me. They’re disco infernos. Nothing more than unwilling participants in my efforts to make whatever statement it is I’m trying to make.

It’s much lighter outside now than it will be when I do this for real, considering I’ll be leaving for work around 5AM on biking days. I’m still not too keen on that idea. At least the cover of darkness will have my back should I need to stop and take a leak somewhere along the way.

A Chevy Tahoe blows by me, serving notice that the road is not mine. Not even a little bit. Rush hour should be interesting.

The sixty-four ounce bladder tucked inside the single strap miniature backpack serves as my only source of hydration during this trek. I worry if it’s enough water, especially since the mouthpiece draped over my right shoulder is leaking profusely, seeping through the green outer layer of my long-sleeved t-shirt.

I run through a mental checklist of items I’ll need to purchase if this idea turns into reality: Reflective vest. Repair kit with pump. Helmet – sans strangulation feature. Cargo rack. A real hydration kit, preferably one that doesn’t leak.

Traci had once asked if instead of a buying a cargo rack if I would be willing to put a basket on the front since we already had one that Kacie was no longer using. She’d said it was just sitting in our storage shed, taking up space. I asked if she was trying to make me look like Pee-wee Herman.

In can see my final destination in the near distance. Without being instructed to, my legs pedal harder. Faster. The pain no longer distracts them. I hope it’s not a mirage.

I take one long, last drag of water from the rubber mouthpiece nestled against my chest. The water no longer tastes cold and refreshing as it had when I’d first sipped at the start of the morning. Instead it reminds of how most everything in my life starts out with the best intentions but rarely finishes with anything other than a lackluster bang. The water tastes dry and does nothing to quench my thirst.

One last left and this part of my day will be over.

Sunday, 7:52AM

I fight to get the bike back into the already crowded storage shed. So much crap in here – crap we’ll probably never use again but can’t ever seem to let go of – like the basket Kacie no longer uses on her own bike. This storage shed really isn’t so different from my mind.

Sixteen minutes after my second attempt at a first trial run began, I say goodbye to the bicycle that’s caused me so much pain in such a short amount of time. I turn the key in the doorknob, locking the bicycle in the dungeon where it will stay until I am finally ready to release it again.

Before climbing the three flights of stairs to our apartment, I walk across the parking lot to the Mustang. I really need to wash her, but not today. It’ll take every bit of energy I have left just to wash my own body.

I run my hand along her metal curves, tracing each number of the faded 289 chrome emblem on the front left fender with my middle finger. What would she say if she could talk? Would she too regret certain roads she’d traveled down?

A muted chuckle, only audible to myself and the Mustang, escapes from within me. I pat the car on its hood, much like I've done countless times before with the kids when they've done something good.

It’s funny how I’m going to spend so much time over the next three years reviving this car for Kacie in the hopes that the process will somehow bring us closer together, when it’s the very thing that will one day drive us farther apart.

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