We’ve been together awhile now. I tried resisting your allure after my first kid was born, but I was obviously lying to myself, and you knew it. Yes, I know. I mocked you. I laughed aloud. I judged others who’d fallen for your charms. ‘I’d never be so weak,’ I’d scoffed. I’ll be a cool mom, I thought. SUVs forever! At least I could look like I hike now and then or own a canoe that’s buried under a pile of offroad jogging strollers with deflated tires in my garage.
But I remember the day we met. My defenses were down as I waddled onto your lot. You were waiting for me, parked in the shade on that billion degree day, glistening with turtle wax. My knees were weak, actually that may have been because I was carrying 22 lbs of belly on me. I felt flush, actually that was definitely the progesterone. You beckoned. My husband caught me glancing in your direction, his brow furrowed. He hastened me to the SUV parked in the showroom. “It’s much cooler in here, love.” I was saved but for a moment from your temptation. But then your electric door glided open, and it was more than I could bear. My husband clung desperately to my hand, and his trailing voice issued one final plea “this one has a third row,” knowing he’d lost me to you, maybe for good.
The salesman appeared, oh that fateful wingman. And when he showed me what your electric rear seating could do, it was all over for me. I was in love. I hoisted my huge pregnant body into the creamy leather seats and I became yours, forsaking all-wheel drive and sport transmission. I breathed in the sweet scent of new-car smell for the last time, inviting sticky spills, ants, and rogue soccer socks into my world with wild abandon. A tear streamed down my husband’s cheek as we signed our respective papers in triplicate, making us a ‘his car, her car’ family forever.
As I drove away with you, I felt a part of me die. I’d abandoned my principles, betrayed my solemn vow to never, ever buy a minivan. But at the same time, I swore I wouldn’t be a cliche. ‘I can make this work,’ I professed. ‘Let them judge,’ I defied. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ I pleaded in the silence to myself. What was I to do? I was in love.
Today, Minivan, I write to you to apologize for all the wrong I’ve done you. I’ve done so much damage. I admit, I was fooling myself. I thought I could keep things clean between us. I thought I couldn’t hurt you, but let’s be honest, you knew I was as bad for you as you were for me, right? In a way, I blame you. You knew I was weak. You knew I’d use you, abuse you, back into things, park too close. You knew my children would never care for you, that they’d empty the contents of your change compartment and insert all $3.26 into your cd player. You can’t say you didn’t know your seats would be stuffed with missing socks and Spiderman action figures. Tell me you didn’t know that! And before you get all self-righteous, you’re terrible for the environment!
I’m sorry. That was harsh. It’s me, not you. I’m the one who turned something beautiful into something disgusting. It’s my weakness, not yours, that has brought me to my knees in your vast cargo area [that and changing a poopy diaper]. While we’re on that topic, I know I can do a better job about throwing those out immediately. And I know I could vacuum the floors once in a while. And from now on, I promise you there will be no more juice boxes. I mean it this time. I can do better. You deserve better.
I don’t know if you and I are forever. In fact, if I’m honest, I know one day we will part ways. There are some beautiful SUVs on the market now with 3rd row seating. Okay, that was cruel. But we have to be honest with each other, right? We owe each other that, and I owe way too many more car payments. So let’s just enjoy our time together while we have it, and not try to be something we’re not. And hey, we still have some good times after we drop off the kids, right? You know, listening to non-kid music, catching up on Facebook in the preschool parking lot. Cherished memories. Cherished. Always.
Dear Minivan first appeared on FoldingAFittedSheet.com. All rights reserved. 2014