The Day the Buick Ran Out of Gas

Lady Uppity had imagined motherhood beginning with grace and dignity.

Instead, she found herself attempting to fold a very pregnant body into a Porsche because someone had forgotten to put gas in the Buick.

She weighed all of ninety-eight pounds when she became pregnant—a mere wisp of a woman, her doctor remarked rather condescendingly. He sang a different tune after she gave birth to a nine-pound baby girl.

It was fun driving the Porsche around, whizzing in and out of traffic. As her baby belly grew, however, getting out of the little sports car became a spectacle. She would open the door, place both hands on the pavement—it was a very low-riding car—and push herself upright. Her next-door neighbor laughed every time she witnessed the performance.

Her very conservative parents, who lived an hour away, worried.

First, their daughter had married a long-haired hippie. And if that wasn’t enough, the young couple had been common-law married before making it official.

Now she was pregnant, and all her husband offered her to drive around in was this tiny sports car.

They insisted she borrow their big ol’ Buick until their son-in-law could provide a more sensible family vehicle.

The Buick mostly sat parked, unused. Lady Uppity hated to admit it, but it was easier for grocery runs and doctor’s appointments. It simply wasn’t nearly as much fun. So whenever she could, she chose the Porsche.

Still, during those last two months of pregnancy, the Buick was really the only sensible choice.

Then it happened.

Two weeks before her due date, at about two o’clock in the morning, she got up to use the bathroom. Halfway there, her water broke.

Classic, right?

Well, not quite.

Fortunately, they were ready.

Or so they thought.

Her husband helped her change clothes, grabbed the hospital bag she’d packed weeks before, and hurried downstairs to bring around the car—presumably the Buick.

A few minutes later he returned looking more than a little sheepish.

“We’ll have to take the Porsche.”

Why?

Because someone had forgotten to put gas in the Buick.

In her defense, Lady Uppity had been certain she still had another couple of weeks. She’d planned to fill the tank the next time she went out.

Oops.

By then she barely fit into the passenger seat of that tiny car, but somehow, between contractions, she managed.

So there they were, barreling through the sleeping city toward the hospital in a tiny Porsche.

In his excitement, the soon-to-be father sped through red lights and accidentally turned down one-way streets the wrong direction.

Somehow they made it.

When they arrived, Lady Uppity opened the door, placed both hands on the pavement, and rolled herself out of the Porsche, much to the amazement of her husband and the attendants waiting to hustle her into the emergency entrance.

Several hours—and many intense contractions later—their precious daughter was born.

Years later, Lady Uppity would smile whenever she remembered that ride to the hospital.

Her parents had worried about the car.

She had worried about the gas.

Her husband had worried about making it through every red light.

In the end, none of those worries mattered very much.

Their daughter arrived healthy.

Love, it turns out, has never depended on perfect timing, sensible cars, or full gas tanks.

Sometimes it looks like two young people barreling through the sleeping city in a tiny Porsche, convinced they have no idea what they’re doing.

And somehow…

they do.