Heaven help me, I want a van
I'm sure a friend thought she was being helpful last week when she loaned me her van so I could take advantage of the commissary's case lot sale without spending an hour decluttering my hopelessly gunked-up trunk.
I'm sure she believed she was being nice earlier this summer when she suggested that all six of us pile into her van to go to the drive-in. We could open the back and let the kids lounge through the movie, she said.
Except sometimes you can't tell the altruist from the evil temptress. I fear my so-called friend has led me down a path I didn't want to go. One I swore I'd never travel.
I'm there now. Heaven help me, I want a van. I need a van.
Technically, a van is not a Mom Mobile, according to Urban Dictionary. My current car, a Chrysler Concorde, isn't a Mom Mobile either but it sure feels like it.
That's because I had to give up my precious bright-red Ford Probe GT when I bought it. I didn't think I'd love the Probe as much as I did - the pricier Mustang was my first choice. After a few rough winters, though, I was glad I had the Probe and its front-wheel drive. That thing would climb a tree. And zoom through the mountains of North Carolina. And hug the curves of a West Virginia back road.
Alas and alack, the Probe and I parted four months after Big Guy was born. Its back seat was too small for anyone bigger than an Oompa Loompa, and my back screamed every morning as I contorted myself to squeeze his carrier into its base. Something had to give before I wound up in traction.
So I wound up switching from "sports coupe" to "full-size sedan." Don't you feel yourself aging 10 years just by reading that sentence?
Big Guy applied a Batman sticker a few years back that makes the Concorde microscopically cooler. The back seats are spacious, and its trunk is big enough to tote Jimmy Hoffa, so I thought I'd be able to avoid the humiliation of a minivan.
But that was before the guys started making friends who want to go places with us. And before we went from baseball to swimming to soccer with barely any time to clean the trunk. Before the guys started eating everything in sight, cutting from months to mere weeks the life expectancy on a bulk grocery shopping run.
I'm sure karma's coming into play, too, after I laughed at a friend who'd traded her beloved SUV in for a van back in the spring. It pained her, she said, but with two kids in baseball and karate and swimming ...
I'm not laughing now.
I'll wait a few years, because even though the Concorde is almost seven it doesn't have even 60,000 miles on it. So until the time comes, I'll carry the dread with me, knowing that my tumble into full Mom Mobile-dom is coming despite the Urban Dictionary definition.
I want a van.
Copyright 2010 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.