Make. It. Stop.

We thought our luck had taken a turn for the better. But we were wrong. In the past six hours, here is a brief list of what has happened:

1. We picked up Bryan's truck at the Toyota dealership. (This is what led us to believe we were back on the right track.)
2. Bryan went to a friend's house out by his school. On his way home, around 9 pm, his truck died. Again.
3. AND THEN a semi-truck nearly ran him off the road, slamming him in to the guard rail, which ruined one of the rims, blew out a tire, and scraped the side of his truck.
4. How he made it home without dying, I'll never know.
5. At 3 am, I heard him get up with Zoey. At 3:20 am he brought her downstairs to tell me he's pretty sure she has impetigo. She has an itchy rash on the back of her head and looks like she feels like crap. We gave her Benadryl, rubbed some cortisone cream on her "itchies", and brought her to bed with us.
6. But after 20 minutes I couldn't lie there anymore, as visions of tiny impetigo germs jet-launching from her head to mine played around in my brain.
   
7. Which brings me to this, my 4 am post.

Bryan and I are now of the belief that we just need to get the hell out of Vancouver as soon as humanly possible, before he ends up with his truck in a ditch somewhere and our child falls victim to some horrible flesh-eating virus.

I am not going to tempt fate by asking "could it GET any worse?". Because, as my mother always told me, it can ALWAYS get worse. There are worse things than realizing your daughter isn't going to be able to make it to her last day of preschool, which is probably for the best, since God only knows what other childhood disease she'd pick up and bring home. There are worse things than not knowing when your husband's truck will be fixed and able to make it more than 50 miles on the freeway towards Puyallup, and there are even worse things, I'm sure, than not knowing how much it will cost THIS TIME to fix the problem AND purchase a new tire and rim for his poor, pathetic truck. There are worse things than making one more trip to the pediatrician's office before we leave.

But seriously? What's left to throw at us?