I’m certain there was a time in my life where I boldly declared “I’ll never drive a minivan!” Most of us announce this at some point in our teens to mid twenties. Some of my friends in their 30s are still minivan-resistant (yet they drive cars with a similar capacity, usually guzzling gas, or closely resembling an updated station wagon). In our culture, there seems to be nothing that so obviously announces “I have left my youth behind and I am now a parent” as a minivan.
But I don’t care.
I went a year without regular access to a car during the day. Pregnant for most of it. With a one and half year-old. Before my second child was born, I was determined to get a new (to me) car. We could have gone with a sedan, but suddenly the possibility of fitting 7 – yes 7! – people in one vehicle proved far too alluring. All that space for stuff and the fold and go seats that make the back truck-like? Yes, please. Suddenly, the minivan looked awesome!
Sure, our maroon Dodge Caravan is just one in a sea of the same. Seriously. Does the Caravan come in any other color? Apparently, mine is identifiable around town, however, because friends will say “I saw your van at the (library, supermarket, park).” I wish I could say it was because I keep the van so immaculate, but it’s my Obama/Biden magnet. A fairly small one at that. But I guess it stands out in this small town. Especially in the church parking lot.
My minivan might not be glamorous with its 3 car seats crowding the back, random toys strewn on the floor, crumbs competing for space, and baby gear here and there. But it’s actually fun – yes fun – to drive. The ride is smooth and it feels good to sit up high. I know it screams “mommy,” but I wouldn’t trade it for a “cooler” car if I had the chance – unless it was an electric version.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to drive a minivan forever. If you see me driving this same van 20 years from now, sad and empty, with exhaust trailing behind me, that will be another story altogether.
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