Dear Mini-Van I Will Never Drive

(Author’s Note: To all the mothers who are mini{van}-mommies, you go, girls! Rock on with your choice of vehicle. Drive it, love it, and even jam out in the few fleeting moments you’re alone in it. You have found the courage that I have yet to, and I applaud you.)

Dear Mini-Van I Will Never Drive,

I see you. I see you parked at all the playgrounds and schoolyards with your curvature and less-than-cool esthetics. I can’t turn a corner without your presence lurking in the lane next to me. The silhouette of bouncing heads in the rear window and the bright display of Encanto on the miniature screen is enough to grab anyone’s attention at a 2 minute red light. You’re impossible to ignore. My friends like you. My husband longs for you. My kids would probably prefer you. But, I’m here to tell you in my most Regina George way, “Stop trying to make the minivan happen; it’s not going to happen!”

You don’t fool me!

I’ll admit, you have certain features about you that have others just wrapped around your soccer mom frame, but not me! You’re trying to lure me in with your spacious insides and your sliding doors. Toddlers hop in and out so effortlessly with you; it’s like the family of stick figures on your window mocks me with their ostentatious faces of pure joy and corkscrew pigtails. If they could talk, I’m sure they’d echo some similar sentiments of a professionally trained Disney cast member on acid. But, car décor aside, your mom-approved features do not appeal to me because this mom does not approve of giving in.

It’s like I blink, and I am suddenly my mom.

First of all, I love my mother; she was and is a fantastic mom. And, she, too, succumbed to your persuasive ways. I grew up riding around town in one of you. Good gracious, I even had to drive one of your counterparts during my learner’s permit days. I was embarrassed back then because it was a mom car. I’m resistant now because it was MY MOM’S car. Now, I don’t believe driving a former ancestor of yours hindered any of her abilities to be a great mom. Honestly, it might’ve even made her a better one. But, purchasing a car just like my mom’s is like taking giant steps forward to adulthood only to hop in a time machine and go back 20 years. And, even though I chose {and love} this path of motherhood, to completely accept that I have hit the point of life where my own mother was when she purchased a shiny new minivan, does, in fact, make me feel, well, old. Call me scared; call it reality; label it whatever you want; I just can’t do it. You become just one more “badge of honor” on the sleeve of a stressed-out mom of many who has lost yet another chapter of her youth. These kids have taken so much away already. Why can’t I hold on just a little longer to something? You’re threatening that, and I don’t take kindly to it.

Basically, get lost.

You and I are just not meant to be. We will never make a good team. You’re about comfort, I’m about confidence. You’re a bit retro, and I’m more contemporary. You will never be the peanut butter to my jelly. So, if it’s all the same to you, hit the road, you Mary Poppins of cars. Take your fancy tricks, your lightweight build, and your financial benefits with you. My SUV and I have something special that you just cannot replace. Your efforts are futile here, and though there is that perfect driver out there for you, I am not it. So, I wish you the best in your continued search for converting more housewives into carpool moms. The world does need you, but I do not.

Sincerely,

A Yukon-driving mom of 5 (with one seat to spare, thank you)