R.I.P. The Mommymobile, 2001-2013

                The Mommymobile died Friday morning in Olney, Maryland, following a long battle with transmission problems and complications of emissions system failures. It was twelve and a half years old. It had the grace to die peacefully in front of our own house so we didn’t cause an accident or get stuck in the cold or miss the school talent show on Thursday.

                We got the Mommymobile, a 2001 Honda Odyssey in gray that looked like every other gray Honda Odyssey in the carpool line, on the day before 9/11. I remember driving it around in stunned silence the following day, thinking how messed up the world was. The whole planet was in tears, yet I was cruising around in a lovely new vehicle.

                We brought our third child, Matthew, home from the hospital in the Mommymobile.  And when he was just a baby, during the days of the D.C. snipers, I remember the morning that a landscaper down the block kicked up a stone with his string trimmer, and it shattered the Mommymobile’s window next to the baby. I remember screaming. We were certain we’d been shot at. I remember shaking the broken glass off him and crying. Not a scratch on him, although his little sleeper was full of pellets of safety glass.

                You could fit a lot of kids in the Mommymobile. Over the years, we drove around parts of more than twenty soccer, lacrosse and basketball teams. I estimate, and it is a conservative estimate, that together, the Mommymobile and I made the trip to Sandy Spring Friends School more than 5,060 times. Together, we survived years of Memorial Day camping trips. It was a great place to sit and drink wine while the lightning flashed and the tent leaked.

                We taught my son, Sean, to drive in the Mommymobile.  It ferried around my grandma and my mom, who are both gone. I wish every day my mom was there with me, riding shotgun. Mom and Grandma were amazed at my van’s size and comfort. They declared it was like an airplane. Perhaps they are cruising around in it in Heaven. Grandma’s riding shotgun. They are probably in the drive-thru of a celestial Arby’s right now.

                I have heard friends say they would never drive a minivan. That was a line they would not cross; it was one step too unsexy for them. (Yet these were people who would willingly drive station wagons! Who can understand the thoughts of man?) I loved my minivan. I embraced its boring reliability. I tried to bring out its best self with aromatic braids of sweetgrass and sachets of sage and pine. I tried to keep the smelly soccer cleats in the wayback. If you removed the seats you could fit a huge amount of stuff in there: many bikes, skanky fishing tackle, large IKEA boxes, guitars and amps, crates and crates of horse-related paraphernalia.

                We put the best bumper stickers on it we could find, and as many as we could find. Those bumper stickers got us dirty looks from New Jersey to Kentucky. They got our side panels keyed. They got the tail light smashed, right here in Olney. They got me verbally abused in traffic and once, followed into the grocery store and hassled in the dairy aisle. I stand by my bumper stickers! Yes, I DO have more foreign policy experience than Sarah Palin, actually! And more: “You can no more win a war than you can win an earthquake—Jeannette Rankin.”  “Blessed are the peacemakers—Jesus of Nazareth.” “Montana Girl—Don’t be fooled by the pink.”

                I drove the Mommymobile to the radiologist’s office the morning I found out I have cancer. I sat in that van in the parking lot and sobbed until I stopped shaking enough to drive home. I drove it to each chemotherapy session, although of course John always had to drive us home, because I’d be hallucinating by then. It was a comfortable van to pass out in. And it practically learned to drive itself to Sibley Hospital in DC, where we went daily for six weeks for radiation treatments.

                I have to decide what I will drive now. That is hard, because when I bought the minivan I knew exactly who and what I was, and I am not that person anymore. Is it time for my midlife-crisis vehicle now?  A sexy convertible? I could more easily see myself in a big old Ford pickup, but that would only lead to a gun rack and a big dog. My kid says I should get a Volt; that would be best for the environment. But,you know, I want something that is going to be fun to drive and not a pain in the ass. I am kind of tired of driving what I “should” drive and leaning more toward what I “want” to drive. Hell if I know what that is. But I am collecting bumper stickers for it already.