I am so very proud of myself.
Which is probably going to get me in trouble with that whole seven deadly sins thing, but really proud.
The run up goes something like this: For many years, I would take on various and sundry home improvement projects. I would strap on my Makita cordless drill and go to work on whatever needed to be altered or repaired or built. I worked primarily alone because it is my way. The challenge of having to explain my thinking or engineering was an impediment to my progress. Later, as my son grew and his interest in construction grew right along with him, he was the kid standing next to dad. Asking if he could help. Handing me screws. Holding things in place. This evolution from helping hand to handyman essentially concluded over the summer when he came back from college and helped me build a fence.
Or, rather, I helped him with the fence that he built. By this point, his acumen with things mechanical and tools had put me in the rear-view mirror. It was a bit of a reckoning for me but when the sawdust cleared and the project was complete, I swallowed that lump of pride and took it as a compliment to my parenting skills and my genius offspring.
Which only continued as he showed up periodically to do things like change the oil and filter in our car or help us refine our home wi-fi. This is a kid who chose to work on his own brakes without having to resort to taking them to a mechanic. This knowledge is why I didn't flinch when he showed up at our house last weekend with what he had diagnosed as a bad alternator and a dying battery. He parked his car on our lawn, checked the pictures he had referenced on Al Gore's Internet and proceeded to remove most of the electricals from under his hood. I stood next to him, handing him a wrench every so often, watching him work. Once the guts had been removed, he was off in an Uber to pick up the new parts. When he returned, I took up my place next to him as he continued his operation. I kept handing him tools, even holding a piece or two as he maneuvered them into position. When he had finished adjusting the screws and the tension of the belts, he went around to the driver's seat and cranked it over. The car started up as it was supposed to, but I heard his "hmmm" over the motor. He switched it back off.
"Still not charging," he muttered.
"Maybe it has to do with that black wire that's not attached to anything," I offered.
Huh. That would make a difference. We disconnected the battery and then attached the wire. Battery reconnected along with the alternator, he started the car again.
"Yup." That was it. Dad had saved the day. Or at least the moment. It helped that my vantage point of standing around looking at the process allowed me to appear clever.