I'm chugging down the darkened street at 6:45 (and I mean a' chug-chug-ing) with the boys in tow. A red light that looks like a genie bottle is glowing on the dash and all I can think is get moving dear most reliable van whom I have adored for eight plus years.
I resist the chug-a-lug, put the pedal to the medal. Chug-chug... it picks up... spit-spat. We look like we're being jerked front, then back in a roller coaster.
"Come on, move!" I say.
The boys are freaking out.
"What's wrong with the car?"
"Are we going to break down?"
We are in front of the house, so I think not; but we have to get Andrew to karate and then cross town to pick up Katie from dancing after his class is over. Of course, Pete's out of town. I can't afford to have the van go cuckoo on me right now. Keep your fingers crossed. I think it's bad gas.
It coughs a bit, spits up and moves on like normal. Whew.