Mommy Bloggers: Au Revoir Mon Minivan

The following is a favorite entry from the archives of Deborah Klosky's Spot-On Column.

Dear reader, please forgive my reddened eyes, my tear tracks, my sighs. it's just that we've decided to sell the minivan.

A suburban mom without a minivan is like a knight without his steed, a snail without its shell, a mail carrier without her bag, a fast food joint without its garbage cans; she is lost, vulnerable, defenseless, reduced to only what she can carry in her hands and stuff in the basket under the stroller, she is without a base, without a trusty friend, she is, in short – an SUV driver.

No, no, not that, I assure you, my friends. Although many suburban families do believe they somehow increase their coolness factor by driving an overpriced, ill-famed hunk of monster metal so they can pretend they off-road through ecologically sensitive desert terrain, instead of driving the ever-useful and often-humble minivan, we’re not going that route.

No, we’re giving up my mother’s little helper because we're moving to Spain. While it’s relatively inexpensive to ship a car there, there are apparently quite a few hassles getting it through customs and adapted to EU car standards. But mostly, we’re not sure if it will be useful. If we live in its natural habitat, a suburb, of course it will fit right in; but if we live in the city or even a village, with street construction a carryover from foot and horsie days, then, well, the poor thing might have to be shot when it gets stuck trying to turn a corner somewhere. Or abandoned when it knocks down a few pillars in a city parking garage designed for Matchbox-sized cars. And that’s possible even though it’s on the smaller end of minivans. So we’re leaving it behind.

I’ve never cared about cars, or even liked them much, but, ah, my minivan. The thing is, it’s not a car, it’s more like a really big tote bag on wheels. With room for the kids, of course. And it helps uphold the U.S. competitive advantage in number of cup holders per vehicle. With the kids’ car seats we have nine individual places for drinks. Take that, you scooter-riding Euros. Sure, you look great in your miniskirts and your leather jackets whizzing around on your Vespas, but where do you keep your Big Gulps? Huh? Ha! You don’t, do you? You stop at cafes when you need something to drink. And where’s the efficiency in that? Ha! Over here, we even have cup holders in our ride-on mowers. Now that can make you think of some fun ways to spend a Saturday. Top that!

But of course, now we’re off to Vespa-land, or the dinky little sedan equivalent. Europeans drive cars that a Hummer wouldn’t even consider a worthy snack. Yes, you know, there’s that much more expensive gas thing and there’s the shorter distances thing and there’s the everything is more smooshed together over there thing, and there's also that decent public transportation thing, so Euros seem quite happy with their cute little cars, and subways and trains and buses and trams.

Like many people I had to overcome the initial recoil from buying a minivan. No one wants to think of herself as a boring, clichéd suburban mother carpooling around in her minivan. But then I got in, and I found I had more parity with the big beasts on the highway, I saw the nets and the hooks and the drawers and the cubbies, and the extra room to sit even with the car seats in, and I decided I still don’t need to be defined by what I drive. And it’s not like all Minivan Moms sweetly tool around in them with a sedate, earth mother generosity. Plus, I figure if a red sports car is the ultimate cop magnet, a white (safety color!) minivan is just the opposite. So you do not want to get in my way when I'm late for a kindergarten pickup.

Disagree with me? Come say that standing right here in front of my bumper, buddy. Oh, forgive me, I’m just a little upset these days - we’ve decided to sell the minivan.

Originally posted Dec 22 2005.

Au Revoir Mon Minivan

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