a tale of two flat tires (and four new ones)

It started as an errand to pick out fabric for the baby quilt I'm planning to make Number Four -- an ordeal, in Blake's mind, but he had opinions, which I valued, regarding the color scheme, so he had to come with me. We all piled into the car and Blake began navigating the snowy streets. A quick glance at the gas gauge convinced us to stop to fill up on the way.

About a block from the gas station, a rubbery flip-flopping noise could suddenly be heard from the front left side of the car, and as we pulled up to a pump, the look on the face of the lady parked in front of us confirmed the hollow fear in the pit of my stomach.

We had a flat tire.

Well, okay. These things happen. Blake filled up the car while he planned his next move. We had the needed equipment -- a jack, tools, and a spare -- stored in the back of the car, and luckily we were semi-protected from the elements, so together we pulled it all out and set to work while the boys waited patiently buckled into their seats.

The front left wheel was nearly off the ground when the jack broke. The car could be raised no higher, but neither could it be lowered back to the ground. At a loss, we called for back up in the form of a friend who lived down the block from where we were. Unfortunately, he wasn't home, and though his lovely wife tried diligently to reach out to their neighbors for help, none of them were home either.

And so it was back to square one. Blake left us in the car, precariously still propped up on our now broken jack, while he went out to hunt for a new jack. It had started to snow, and it was only about 25 degrees outside, with a bitter wind chill bringing it down much lower.

His search turned out be an oddly impossible one, despite the fact that we were stuck in a district overflowing with car repair shops. I did my best to keep the boys both distracted and still, since they couldn't wiggle enough to push the car off its precarious perch on the jack, but the longer Blake was away, the harder that became.

He finally returned $50 dollars poorer, but with a new jack -- that turned out not to go up high enough. Back again to square one. This time Blake's search was focused on finding a sympathetic car repairman who could lend us some tools. It took a few tries, but someone was finally willing to help. After several varied attempts, he and a co-worker were able to change out the flat for the spare and we were finally, nearly two hours later, able to head over to the nearby Costco to purchase a new tire. (The two men, who were both a very literal answer to a prayer uttered by myself only moments before, did not ask for payment, but, small though it was, we gave them everything we had on hand and thanked them profusely.)

Only about half a block into that short trip we started to hear the same awful rubbery flip-flopping noise.

"Do we have another flat?" I asked Blake.

"We shouldn't," he replied. "We're driving on one smaller tire in the snow, so it's bound to make a funny noise."

I went with his explanation, but when we turned onto a better plowed street and the noise continued, I got out while stopped at a red light to do a quick run around check of the car. The light changed before I could get all the way around, but all seemed fine, so we pressed on, albeit very slowly.

A couple blocks later we pulled into the tire installation department at Costco to learn that we indeed did have another flat. This time it was the spare. We sighed in disbelief, but at least we were now where we could get everything replaced by someone other than ourselves.

Once inside, and after an initial assessment of our car, it was determined that, while we could of course just replace the broken tire, the other three were in bad shape and in overdue need of replacement (which I think we both kind of suspected would be the case). Another downside to only purchasing the one was that it would not include any of the warranty perks that Costco is known for offering. So we decided to bite the bullet and get four new tires.

But then we remembered that Costco only takes cash, debit, or their own American Express credit card as forms of payment. While we have a small savings for emergencies such as this, it was not readily available in our checking account or immediately transferable from savings. Which left us with one option -- apply for a Costco credit card. Not my ideal choice, but we couldn't abandon our car in the Costco parking lot, so we hauled our brood over to the membership desk to fill out the necessary paperwork.

We were approved and so could then begin the process of purchasing and replacing the tires. Luckily the wait time was only about an hour, which we killed inside the store picking up our week's worth of bread and milk, along with a new pair of jeans to replace the ones Blake had ruined trying to change a tire in the dirty snow, slush, and salt, before filling some hungry stomachs with a hot dog dinner.

While we ate I asked Blake if he'd been able to determine what had caused the original flat. By his estimation it looked like we'd run over some sort of bolt or screw that shredded the tire on contact. And all this time I was expecting our first wintertime flat to be the result of hitting one of the city's notoriously hideous potholes!

Finally the car was ready and we were free to at last go home. But before we did, Blake wanted to make one last stop to ensure this didn't happen again, so we swung by an Auto Zone to buy what we hope will be our final jack, and this time there were enough options to ensure that we could get one that went high enough. (As for the flat spare, with the thought that it may have been flat in the first place, they refilled it with air at Costco and it seems to again be in working order, but we will be checking on that again soon.)

We pulled up to our building about an hour after the boys bedtime -- and roughly six hours after the whole ordeal began -- and hurried them to bed. I'm still amazed at how patient they were! As for Blake and I, we spent the rest of the evening trying to unwind from the physical and emotional exhaustion we'd been doled out that afternoon. What a day -- and we never even made it to the fabric store!