So as I was driving to pick up my 12 year old “lil man” from baseball practice this afternoon, I began to hear the strangest noise from my front passenger side tire.  I’m talking metal on metal grinding with the occasional tick-tick-tick, like a pen being held against the rotating blades of a fan.  As I slowed down for a stop light, it moaned…I’m telling you the baby was sobbing.  That’s her name “the baby”. She’s no princess, but no one puts baby in a corner.

I gently maneuvered the baby into the middle school parking lot and inspected every inch of the tires.  Well, every inch that I could see from my viewpoint, that is. It had been raining and I was in dressy work clothes, so it’s not like I was getting down on my knees to look under the baby.  A girl’s got a line, ya know?

Instead, I did what every independent, strong-willed, hardworking, self-motivated Mom does. I walked over to two of the baseball Dads I know and begged for help.

They bent near the tires, poked, prodded, hmmm’d, and hawwww’d, and figured it was probably the rotor.  (I just did spell check. I don’t even know what a rotor is, let alone if it’s spelled correctly.)  But, they figured it was safe to drive as long as I get it to the shop quickly.  One Dad explained although safe to drive, the more I drive, the more damage I’ll do, which just means the cost to repair goes up.

Great.  Cha-ching sounds like about $400

During this whole time, the hubby is at his extracurricular job, the one he does every basketball season. He loves to help out with the kids, gets to make a little extra “him” cash, and I keep my big kid off the streets.  It’s a win-win.  Except when he’s trying to get me to explain the noise over the phone.  Umm…click…click..click…gets faster as I drive…grrrrrrrrrr……..grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr….gggggggggggrrrrrrrrrrrr… I felt like a complete idiot and sounded like one too, I’m sure.  Like it matters.  Neither of us knows anything about cars but you say something’s wrong with the car to a man, well, it’s like telling us women there’s a new purse outlet opening nearby.  What kind? Coach? Prada? Louis Vuitton? What colors? Beige? Black? Blue? Ooohhh Navy Blue??

I then decide it would be more productive if I call the repair shop and see if they can get me in immediately.  I was beginning to panic.  The baby can’t be sick.

The shop couldn’t get me an official appointment until next week, but the lady who answered was so very helpful.  She was not a technician (repeated several times to clear responsibility), but since the noise happened all the time and not just when the brakes were pressed, didn’t sound like the rotor.  It sounded to her, the non-technician, like the bearings.  Again, not sure if that is spelled correctly and only familiar with bearings in the wheels of the roller skates circa 1988, but it must be kinda like that.

Now my brain is tallying the cost to be near $700.00

But she also agreed it would not be a safety hazard to drive the car.  So a little while later, I take lil man to his basketball practice.  Yeah, it sounds like he’s over-committed and exhausted, but this is season overlap and two practices in one day hardly ever happen.  Don’t judge.  It’s been a rough day.

As I drop him off and have the next hour mentally planned out to include my newspaper, ipad games, and kindle book (hey, an hour is eternity when you’re stuck in a car), I see Coach John across the parking lot.

Coach John is hubby’s best friend and if there was going to be a bro-mance of any kind, it would be with him.  Our kids have played sports together for years and these two Dads have coached together for most of that time.  Two peas in a pod, peanut butter and jelly, chips and dip, carrots and celery…I think I’m hungry.

Coach John comes over and listens to the baby.  Takes out his trusty flashlight and points to the metal piece that has dislodged from the “caliper”…yes ladies, I did say caliber as I relayed the info to the hubby, and Coach John only laughed a tiny bit.

The tire had to come off…no worries baby, it won’t hurt but for a minute.

It took research in the owner’s manual, questions on google, and about 10 swift kicks, but Coach John did it!!  He removed the tire, found the twisted metal covering to the brake pad sensor that had dislodged and was scraping against the inside of the rim and voila!!  The baby was purring again.

And it only cost me a hug!! Thank you Coach John!