Brake it Down

A couple weeks ago the brakes on my car went out. While I was driving. While I was driving with my two sleeping children in the backseat. Needless to say, it was one of those terrifying moments that, thankfully, happen so fast you don’t even have time to process how truly terrifying it is as it’s happening.

Spoiler alert: we’re all safe and nothing awful happened (unless you count the huge dent in our checking account).

The kids and I were on our way to my parents’ house. To turn into their neighborhood from a four-lane busy street, you have to be paying attention or you just might miss the street. My method is to watch for the street sign to know exactly when the turn is coming up. Apparently, though, the street sign was down for some reason. While I had slowed down considerably, when I realized the street was upon us, I wasn’t quite going slow enough to safely make the turn.

So I cruised on to the next turn, which goes into a parking lot and would let me wind my way over to the neighborhood street. No big deal.

But in an instant, my car (and me) started freaking out. Warning beeps screeched, dashboard lights flashed, emergency signals that I couldn’t decipher suddenly appeared on my screen. I tried to brake and quickly realized that was not happening. I needed to get off the road. Everything happened so fast, I’m not sure exactly how things went down. One of the lights that came on was my emergency brake light. I thought, “Did I manage to turn on my emergency brakes?” So I pressed the emergency brake pedal to try to turn it off, which turned out to be a good thing because it slowed me down. I think I put on my flashers, aware that things were not good and I should try to warn other drivers.

As I was attempting the right turn into the parking lot, another car was exiting the lot, and I briefly considered honking because I didn’t think I was going slow enough to control my turn. But somehow I controlled it. Maybe it was the fact that I was on an incline that slowed me down. Maybe it was because I had already been decreasing my speed for awhile. Maybe it was because I pressed the emergency brake pedal. But I cruised into the lot and pulled over to the side. I could tell my brakes were not doing what they were supposed to. Their stopping action was not related at all to my pressing on the pedal, it seemed.

My heart was pounding. I may have cursed a time or two. But we were stopped, and the kids were still asleep in spite of the beeping, screeching warning sounds. I turned the car off and tried turning it back on. The classic reset move. But that didn’t help anything. The flashing and beeping started the instant the car came back on. I considered whether I could make it to my parents’ house, since I was only a couple blocks away. No, bad idea. I did, however, decide to try to move the car about 20 feet forward to be in an actual parking spot rather than on the side of the parking lot entrance. Since I never went more than 5 mph, I was able to pull off this maneuver.

I called my parents and my dad answered the phone. I explained what happened and asked him to come pick up the kids. It was about 100 degrees out and I didn’t like the thought of them sleeping in the car in the heat. Dad came right away and we all loaded into the car, deciding that I could call AAA from their house and come back to the car when the tow truck came.

I called, the car got towed to my side of town, and we ended up paying close to $2200 for parts and labor. It was the skid control ECU that had malfunctioned and needed to be replaced. (While I’m sure all of you know exactly what that is, let me explain for my own memory. It’s basically one of several sub-computers in the car that controls a bunch of functions, including the brakes. And since the brakes in the Prius are tied to the whole hybrid functionality, it’s a complicated expensive thing to fix. And nobody but the dealer will fix it, so they can pretty much charge whatever they want for labor.)

In the end, everything turned out fine. And the brakes going out happened at about the best possible time. The day before, we were on our way back from my cousin’s wedding in Iowa and spent a lot of time on small roads in rural Iowa. With temps in the upper nineties and no shade to speak of, waiting for a tow truck in the middle of nowhere would have been a lot worse. Even just ten minutes earlier would have been worse, since we were driving on a 65-mph-highway. And having that street sign down was even a good thing, since it had me slowing down, but forcing me to miss the turn meant I ended up going up an incline. I’m not one to believe in miracles or guardian angels or any of that, but incidents like this make me feel pretty thankful to the universe for looking out for me and my babies.

Milo's First Flight

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. This weekend I flew to Washington, D.C. for my dear friend Molly's bridal shower and bachelorette party. But I did not go by myself. My travel companion was a chubby-cheeked, thunder-thighed, blue-eyed, 13-pound bundle of joy. Because I am breastfeeding, Milo goes where I go. So we went to D.C. together. And—spoiler alert—we made it.

I was a nervous wreck beforehand. I had no idea what it would be like to travel with an infant. I read about traveling with a baby. I asked friends for advice. I called the airline. I overpacked. But I had no idea what to expect. And on Friday morning, I was so nervous I just kept crying. (I am a crier. Have I mentioned this before? It is how I react to about 75 percent of situations.) I was so worried that Milo would be miserable, or that he would get sick, or poop all over me. Not just on the plane. I was least worried about the flight itself. I was worried about getting both of us, plus stroller, diaper bag, cooler bag of frozen milk, and my giant camping backpack from the airport to the metro and then on to the hotel. I was worried about being on my own with Milo for three days. I'd be the only one for every diaper change, for every feeding, for every need he had. And that thought overwhelmed me.

I made it through airport security with no trouble. Shoes off, liquids bag in the tub. Milo out of stroller, fold up stroller, send diaper bag and stroller through X-ray. Declare 36 ounces of frozen breastmilk, send through X-ray. Walk through with baby in arms. Milo back in stroller, gather bags, put on shoes. As I waited in the boarding area, a woman approached me. She asked if I was traveling alone with the baby. She said she had a three-year-old and knew how tough traveling could be, and she offered to sit by me on the plane and help in any way she could. I began crying again. Embarrassed to be such a mess in front of this stranger, but so incredibly thankful for her offer, I said that would be great, and she and I began to talk. Her name was Amber, and she made all the difference in the world to me on my first flight with a baby.

Amber and I did manage to sit together—my original seatmate, a businessman, was happy to switch seats. I nursed Milo during take-off so his ears wouldn't hurt, and I was glad to have this woman (who breastfed her child for two years) sitting next to me. All seemed to be going really well, and my nerves were dissipating. Even though Milo was not sleeping as I had hoped he would be, he was fairly content and easy to entertain. Looked like it would be a good trip.

But then.

We hit some turbulence. Like, a lot of turbulence. The plane bounced around. Milo smiled at the sudden movements. I wanted air and tried not to think about feeling sick. The turbulence was so bad, a passenger fell to the floor as he walked back to his seat. I had a cup of water sitting on Amber's tray table, and not wanting it to spill or splash on her, I picked it up to finish it off. Before I could get a chance to take a drink, though, the plane dropped suddenly. Several people shrieked. My water flew up onto the ceiling, dripping down onto my head and soaking Milo's pjs. Everyone on board flew up as high as their seat belts would let them. Milo was not wearing a seat belt. And I was only supporting him with one arm. He was ripped out of my grasp, flying above my eye level. It happened so fast, seeing Milo in the air like that felt like it was happening in slow motion.

Thankfully, he came down safe and sound in the crook of my arm. But he was upset. And I was upset. I cried again, hugging that little boy so close. I couldn't stop thinking of the what-ifs. What if he had hit his head on the ceiling? What if I had been holding him less tightly and he banged his head on the wall? What if my seat belt had been looser and I hit my head and was unable to care for Milo? It was awful. No parenting moment so far has had me more shaken than this.

I've never experience turbulence like that before. One of the flight attendants was injured and upon landing had to be taken off the plane by medical personnel. As the passengers filed off the plane, you could see the stains of spilled coffee and soda all over their clothes and bags. Amber threw up, and I doubt she was the only one. But we made it. I'm not sure what I would have done without Amber there to distract me, help me, and encourage me. Even after we landed, she went with me to the baggage claim and carried the cooler bag for me. She watched Milo while I used the restroom. When her sister arrived to pick her up, they both walked me all the way to the metro entrance. Super nice. Amber, if you read this, thank you. You were a lifesaver for me and I will never forget your kindness.

Stories of the rest of the trip will have to wait. I'm still exhausted from the whirlwind trip, and it's time for me to go to bed.