If this van's a-rockin'...

Belle and I have been a little wistful lately as we watch our kids grow. Our 4-and-a-half-year-old daughter can already apply her own lipstick. Our 19-month-old son, after figuring out he can stand up during bathtime, has discovered the joy of peeing in the tub.

So, after much deliberation, we decided it was time to have a third... row of seating in one of our cars.

Not our van.

That we became Van People was a bit of surprise. But I should have seen this automotive evolution coming. I might have even predicted it five years ago:

Memories might be priceless, but if I can get a couple thousand dollars for my car when I turn it in, I'll take it. That money will not go toward purchasing my new car, though, because that is already in our garage. I'll soon be driving Belle's Corolla, a silver four-door with some pep and a small spoiler so named because it spoils the view out of your rearview mirror.

Belle, in turn, will get a new car. Something a little bigger, something with a bit more room, something that can fit -- gulp -- car seats.

Since then, the Corolla and I got along fine. But then the radio display stopped working. And then the automatic locks stopped automatically locking. And then our kids and our car seats got bigger and the car started feeling small when we all piled in. We could only take the car on short trips that did not require us bringing much more than ourselves.

Poor Belle was packed so tight in the passenger seat of the Corolla with her backpack, cooler of snacks and knitting bag that she could barely buckle her seatbelt. When the kids needed something while we were driving (it's never "if" when you have kids under 5), she would have to contort herself over the center console and effectively moon the driver in front of us.

(If you were expecting a butt joke there, I'd like to sleep in my bed tonight, thank you very much.)

For as long as I've known Belle, she swore she would never get a van. But the door opened for one in part because of the doors on her SUV. Contorting your kids through a car-door opening and into their car seats without any complaining is the toughest game of "Operation" imaginable. The appeal of sliding doors and the ability for our kids to climb into the van on their own, not to mention space for them to spread out, was a huge selling point.

Some couples go out for dinner on their wedding anniversary. Belle and I, in perhaps the most appropriate sign of how far we've come since we said "I do," spent our wedding anniversary at a car dealership saying "I don't" to financing plans and various add-ons to our new van. One month later, everyone is happy and comfortable in our new ride. Belle even lets me drive it sometime.

That third row, incidentally, is empty right now but we've been batting around a plan for it. It could involve -- gulp -- another car seat.

As I was writing this, at 6:30 one morning, I saw my son stirring in his crib on the baby monitor. He was calm, so I went back to writing. A minute later, I heard my daughter's voice over the monitor, and then saw her hand give him a book through the crib rails.

I ran upstairs and found my daughter sitting on the potty.

"Why did you go into his room?" I asked.

"He was trying to reach 'Pete the Cat,'" she replied as my son wailed in his crib.

People always joke about going from one kid to two is like going from a zone defense to man-to-man. But what you don't realize until you have a kid is that, in both scenarios, you're playing against LeBron James. All you can do is try to keep the score respectable.

So whether we have a third child or continue to marvel at how our two kids are growing, I was prescient five years ago about my future:

This is going to cost me a lot of money.

End of the road

I sat in the sterile waiting room, trying to read the newspaper to keep my mind from thinking the worst. Mostly crappy, light rock music played softly overhead. An innocent, happy child, oblivious to what was going on around her, made enough noise to make me wish the crappy, light rock music was playing louder.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a man approached me with a serious look on his face.

This is what 170,000 miles looks like on the inside.

This is going to cost me a lot of money, I thought.

"We just had to give it some more oil," he said.

"OK, great," I said calmly, while imagining myself doing the backstroke Scrooge McDuck-style in a swimming pool filled with all the money I just saved.

"The only way to permanently fix this, though, is to replace the engine," he said.

As my money-filled pool quickly emptied, I asked him how much more time I had with my car. Could I make it to the end of the year?

"Yeah, that shouldn't be a problem," he said.

And, just like that, my blue, two-door Civic had a terminal diagnosis.

I'm not sentimental over many material possessions, but my visit to the mechanic got me thinking about how my car is one of the longest relationships I've ever had. We met in the middle of my senior year of high school. I remember picking it up and driving right over to a friend's house for what was to be first and only meeting of the Franklin Gentleman's Club. My car would have been a topic for discussion except for, um, the business at hand. (Although the use of our hands was forbidden during the meeting.)

The Civic now has almost 170,000 miles on it, plus a few dents and spots with chipped paint. It has been filled to the brim as it moved me into two apartments, one condo and one house. It can practically drive itself to the beach. It has a knack for finding nails to run over, one time even getting a razor blade stuck in the tire tread, which impressed the guy at the tire shop. It has made countless runs to the grocery store and been a personal recording studio to countless songs, mostly sung off-key.

A lady friend (or four) has sat in the passenger seat over the years. There were awkward conversations and a few laughs, and that was just when I was alone in the car before or after a date. But the Civic is also where, after driving home from my first date with Belle, I could not wipe the smile from my face and thought she might be The One.

Speaking of wiping, few things make me happier than a clean car. I've spent many a weekend afternoon lathering, rinsing and vacuuming. And then I wash my car. Granted, it almost always rains after I'm done, but for those glorious, 27 minutes of sunshine, my Civic looks all shiny and new.

Memories might be priceless, but if I can get a couple thousand dollars for my car when I turn it in, I'll take it. That money will not go toward purchasing my new car, though, because that is already in our garage. I'll soon be driving Belle's Corolla, a silver four-door with some pep and a small spoiler so named because it spoils the view out of your rearview mirror.

Belle, in turn, will get a new car. Something a little bigger, something with a bit more room, something that can fit -- gulp -- car seats.

This is going to cost me a lot of money, I think.

A not-quite-good-enough Good Samaritan

I was late for my haircut appointment and fiddling with my iPod when I heard a noise above the din of my ear buds.

"Excuse me!"

It was a woman in a beat-up car, waving me over.

"My car died. Can you push me up the hill?"

It was a fairly steep incline that would require a good 20 feet of movement plus a slight turn to get her out of the way of traffic.

Now, I like to think I'm in pretty good shape, but I'm no Ivan Putski. Nevertheless, I went over and began pushing. No luck. I stepped back from the car when I heard another voice.

"Why don't you roll the car downhill to the side of the road?"

This driver at the stoplight made a good point. I let gravity do the work and got the car down the hill and to the side of the road. Thankfully, no cars were coming, but I was ready to channel my-inner-fifth-grade school safety patrol and halt traffic.

(Speaking of, I've noticed more and more police officers directing traffic at intersections where there are no accidents or problems. This ends up slowing down traffic because drivers have to be careful not to hit the officers. If only there were some sort of light system that signaled to drivers when it was time to move...)

Now we're on the side of the road and I'm definitely going to be late for my haircut. The woman thanks me and I'm about to go on my way.

"I dropped my phone in the sink the other week and it hasn't been working. Can I use yours?"

I wanted to do a quick scan of my surroundings to get as good a look at my kidnappers as possible, figuring this had to be a setup. But I gave her my phone and waited.

And waited. And waited.

I thought about all of what appeared to be trash in her car and wondered if she were one of those people who says, "It looks messy but I know where everything is."

I thought about the sales people who, when they want you to sign something, ask for your autograph. It's flattering when you're 12 and for a split-second when you're an adult, until you realize this person would have the worst autograph collection ever.

I thought about Bachman-Turner Overdrive. "Let it ride" or "let it roll?" Let's pick a directive and stick with it, BTO.

I thought about the people walking behind me. We were stopped directly across the street from a hospital entrance. A frail-looking, elderly woman with toothpicks for legs was slowly shuffling toward the hospital, left hand on the brick building for support. Wouldn't it be something if she asked me...

"Excuse me," she said.

You've got to be kidding, I thought.

"Can you help me across the street?"

I stammered something about how I was already earning my Good Samaritan badge with the woman in the broken-down car.

I'm not sure she bought it; fortunately, someone else came along to help the patient to the hospital.

The tow truck had been arranged finally and was on its way. The woman thanked me profusely for helping her. I wished her the best and called to say I would be late for my haircut.

The lesson in all of this, I think, is that just when you think you've seen everything life, you realize you ain't seen nothing yet.