Vanity and the Van

I always swore I would never own a mini-van. It was the ultimate evil when it came to car options.

It may have been because this was the first vehicle that I drove when I turned 16: the pale blue Astro van that was demolished when I was run into by a driver who fell asleep at the wheel and hit the van head-on and the forest green Windstar replacement, a slightly more up-to-date van model, but still a mini-van.

The mini-van was the ultimate symbol of momhood, specifically suburban, Mormon momhood where I grew up. Everyone had one. Once the wood paneled station wagon with the rear-facing back seat, that I never recall having seatbelts, went out of vogue, the mini-van took over the mormon mom market in full force. I am not sure there was even an option or that I recall a family on our street during my tween and teen years who did not drive one.

The minivan symbol is well-epitomized by the Little People Toys’ Melody Minivan – a pink vehicle that comes with a mom (holding a bottle in one hand and a phone in the other) and three kids. I could not own a mini-van because I never was going to be that person. I vowed to stay young, hip, tuned into contemporary life. I refused to get frumpy and old.

Five years ago, when we were looking to trade out our small sedan for something a little more kid-friendly, a vehicle that handled well in the weather and could hold both a stroller and the large package of paper towels or toilet paper during the monthly trip to Costco, Jeffrey suggested we buy a mini-van. I was incensed. What was he suggesting? Here I was a young mother of ONE (not even pregnant with number two yet), a professional, still in my twenties, and he thought I was the sort of woman who ought to be driving a mini-van. It was a HUGE blow to my self-esteem.

I told him in no uncertain terms that there was NO way, NO condition, NO situation in which I would drive a mini-van. What did he think we were -- our parents?!? I was too young, had too few kids, and regularly drove a Member of Congress to meetings in my vehicle; I could not even listen to his crazy logic of why a mini-van made sense for our family. Thus, we bought an SUV.

Then, last December, Jeffrey got in a fender-bender on the I-95. His car was in the shop for nearly a month, and when I went to pick up the rental, they offered me a mini-van. What could I do? I wanted to tell them, “No I don’t drive mini-vans,” but I really didn’t have a chance. They had limited cars available and it was me -- the mom toting two kids and two car seats from the car repair shop -- or the twenty-something, single, Hispanic man who had to take the mini-van. I just couldn’t pull together enough guts to explain how a mini-van just really did not fit my image.

So, I took the van: a base model Kia. And, the van began to woo me in very subtle ways. It was not flashy – how could it be, it was a mini-van, remember. It had no bling, no power-operated features with which to wow me. But, it gradually sidled up close to me and began to court me with its ample seating and sheer practicality. Carpool to preschool was a breeze when the kids could fasten their own seatbelts and have a little bit of personal space; I had more space than in the back of my SUV for hauling all the paraphernalia required for the ward Christmas party; and during our two visits from family I could pick them up from the airport and transport everyone in one vehicle with ease. It wasn’t the handsome, showy, status symbol every girl longs for, but the mini-van was proving to have some practical reliability I could not argue with.

As the reality of our third child’s birth sunk in, I found myself pining for a car with more space. Shocked, and rather appalled by my own thoughts, I reaffirmed my personal commitment to never owning a min-van. I would not succumb. There had to be another way.

Gas-prices, environmental consciousness, and sheer convenience ruled out a larger SUV: it is nearly impossible to hook up a car seat or transport an adult in the back seat with any degree of ease or comfort. I looked at some cross-overs which were sporty and far more appropriate for my image-consciousness. But, the price tag and convenience just could not compare with the mini-van. No matter how I searched I could not reason myself into a better option.

But, my vanity was persistent. I determined I would just drive my existing car, telling myself that it was wasteful to have a vehicle with extra seats anyway. Yet, when I actually fastened three car seats into the back of my Pathfinder, I realized the truth. I was deceiving myself. I could not make the car work long-term, and I was simply trying to be something I was not.

Why shouldn’t I buy the vehicle that made the most sense for the family and life that I actually have? Why should I keep trying to prove to myself that I am younger and hipper than I am? Who am I trying to impress anyway – moms at playgroup, church, the elementary school or the grocery store? All of them already drive vans anyway.

No matter how hard I may try to resist it, in reality, I am a suburban-dwelling, thirty-something, stay-at-home mother of three children. There is no way around it: it is just what I have become. And, no matter how much I may struggle to admit it, the right car for me is a mini-van.

So, this week, to a chorus of Jeffrey’s I-told-you-so’s, I laid aside my vanity, completed the transformation into full momhood, and was wedded to a Toyota Sienna. It is practical and roomy. It is convenient with power doors, windows, and hatchback. It is luxurious with leather interior, a navigational system, back-up camera, and DVD player. And, it is mine until death (the van's or my own) do us part -- or at least so my husband says.

And, after all is said and done, I have just one thing to say: I HEART my van!