I drive a minivan – with some trepidation

I drive a minivan, and I don’t care who knows it.

That’s not true, in fact. I have some shame.

Okay, I feel like a tremendous dork every time I get behind the wheel.

I have always preferred the smaller car, maybe an Audi A4 or a Porsche or even a zippy Toyota. But then I birthed three kids and moved where it snows 300 inches a year, and my choices naturally became somewhat restricted.

I had to drive a 4×4 truck for what seemed like ages because it allowed me to charge full speed through my drifted-in driveway. It was a full-size cherry-red extended cab Chevy with a topper. Everyone knows there’s nothing sexier than a chick who drives a truck with a topper (except for one who drives a minivan.)

Trying to make the best of it, I named my truck Roxanne (Roxie for short). We bought her when she had just 1500 miles – yet she smelled like the cologne of her previous owner until they day we traded her in. The person who drives Roxie now would probably lament that she smells like sour milk and stale French fries, from this previous owner.

Anyway, I thought it was my right and privilege to have a cool-ish car after having driven Roxie for so many years, so we left our 3 young kids with Grandma and head to the dealership. Armed with research but ready to throw it all away for vanity, I am headed straight for the bubbled lines of a sleek new something-or-other.

We don’t even get to the front door before my husband whistles low and yanks my sleeve.

“Look. Look at this one.”

He is genuinely awe-struck, so I follow his gaze. He is eyeing a stock model, shiny white minivan, which looks not unlike a gargantuan tampon. And it is completely bare bones. No keyless entry. No DVD player. My husband would really like to find one without automatic windows, but it’s not an option.

My husband, you see, is a van kind of guy. I write that and then I try to imagine what you think of when I say my husband is a van kind of a guy. He’s practical. He’s smart. He’s salt of the earth. He prefers to drive around in something that you could actually live in if you fell on hard times.

We got engaged in a Volkswagen Vanagon, in fact, which was my husband’s car when we met and which I named Shelly. Now that was a van. One time, our 150-pound harlequin Great Dane had a tummy ache in the backseat and made an enormous mess, so my carpenter husband ripped up the upholstery and carpet and put down hardwood.

When we were first married, he used his old rock climbing ropes to drag Shelly with my own little Acura (the last cool car I owned) down the street. I got really good at popping the clutch so he could go off to work.

Ah, memories.

Needless to say, we ended up with the minivan that day at the dealership. That was 5 years ago and it has grown on me (a little) – mostly because my 94-pound dog can ride shotgun whenever he likes and because it’s fairly indestructible.

One time last winter, someone plowed into us from behind at a stop sign. Literally. There was actually a snowplow on the front of his truck, and the impact had bumped us forward a foot or two. My husband got out to survey the damage and I started rasping my palms together in a diabolical, plotting fashion and chanting, “Mama needs a Lexus.” But there was no damage. None whatsoever.

I am sure that buying the minivan is not the last time I make a concession for the safety and comfort of my kiddos, but it has become a sort of symbol in the mommy world. Those of us who drive these things are the ones, it would seem, who have sold out to all things soccer-mom-ish; the ones who wear jeans with elastic waistbands and don’t go anywhere without a dozen Capris Suns and box of granola bars shoved into our handbags. Or so the cliche goes – and so the non minivan mommies might have you believe.

When I bought my van, some of my friends expressed their disappointment in my choice with ill-timed dramatic pauses. “You. do. not. drive. a. minivan,” and “I would never. ever. ever. drive. a. minivan.”

But then, my other friend (my true friend, as you’ll see) says to me: “Susanna, really. What are we clinging to? We’re old. We have kids. This gets them around safely and happily and lets them bring their friends along. Also, their dogs.”

This would have meant little to me except that the friend who said it to me is rather a hottie. She is, in fact, my hottest friend. She is the type who wears high-heeled boots with tights and short skirts just to pick up her kids at a sleepover.

And she drives a minivan just like mine.

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