I'm having a little difficulty remembering that everything will work out well in the end. I seem to have misplaced my rose-colored glasses, and their loss is taking a toll on my spirit.

We got a new (to us) car last weekend. It's a 1992 Pontiac Bonneville, and we got what I thought was a very good deal on a car that I loved from the moment I first sat in her. Yes, her; I named her Elizabeth during the test drive. In hindsight, that was probably my first mistake.

Of course, Eric says that he was nearly as smitten as I. In any event, we bought her. After a few days, we began to take greater notice of a humming noise that started when Bess was going between forty and fifty miles per hour. Then the "check engine" light began blinking. We weren't horribly scared, but there was a definite air of tension whenever we drove her.

For my part, I was feeling waves of apprehensive guilt. I felt responsible for whatever mess we were about to experience; I was the one who fell madly in love with the first car I test-drove, after all.

We took the car into the shop yesterday. Our second mistake: we took her to an in-town mechanic instead of to the dealer where we bought the car. Sam and I dropped the car off, walked to a nearby shopping strip, and then came back to face the music.

Two thousand dollars.

Cue the sound of my stomach dropping into my shoes. Ker-plunk.

I had the mechanic call Eric, who told him to go ahead and do the repairs. (That was mistake number three, right there. Strike three; you're out!) Then he angrily called the dealer, who told Eric to bring the car to their garage. When he called the first mechanic, though, the car was already "under the knife," so to speak. It was too late.

So we're out of luck. Lemon laws apparently only apply to new cars, and we evidently bought this car "as is." My father-in-law said he thought we were smarter than this; my father insists that the dealer needs to take responsibility, but we're not sure what, if anything, can be done.

But there must be good news. I need some good news!

I did get a lovely, if brief, email from my editor at the magazine, telling me that I'm "the best writer to come our way in a long time" and hoping that we can work together much more in the future. That almost made me cry; on days when I feel as foolish as I do right now, compliments mean the world.

Sam's walking more and more. I'd say he's walking about fifty percent of the time now, dropping to his knees only when he's in a hurry or focused on a particular goal. Of course, he also crawls when he plays, since the vast majority of his play involves wheeled vehicles. He looks absolutely adorable when he toddles, taking teensy-tiny little steps with widespread legs. He doesn't understand that it's a big deal. A few days ago, he finally walked across the whole room, and I applauded him with a big "Yay!" He spun around, startled, and then grinned and clapped back at me. Then he crawled back across the room, stood up, and clapped again. Yay for transportation, however it occurs!

The visits to the nursing home are going well. We visit two women on a regular basis, stopping for briefer visits along the way with other residents in the hallway or common room. Thelma, our first friend, is bedridden, but knits and crochets and loves to talk about her grandkids. Agnes, the second lady, is somewhat less coherent, but is able to get out of bed to sit in her wheelchair. She collects stuffed animals, which entertains Sam greatly, and loves to look at Sam's drawings hanging on her wall.

Sam enjoys the visits, too, though some of the residents do make him nervous when they try to touch him or when they moan. He would love to push their wheelchairs, if I let him, so I have to keep an eagle-eye on him when he leaves my arms.

Well, that was a bit of a distraction, but I still feel nauseated. Eric says he's not angry with me over this mess - but I am. Oh, I am.

I need a hug, and a big one.