When I found out I was pregnant with my daughter, I upgraded my sedan to an SUV. It was a practical decision. I had friends who resisted transitioning to a bigger vehicle when they had kids, only to realize too late that babies come with an ungodly amount of stuff. Strollers, diaper bags, portable cribs, baby carriers, and eventually, the snack crumbs that haunt your carpets forever. On the other hand, my husband stubbornly held on to his beloved two-door, manual-shift sporty car that barely fit one seat in the back.
When I found out I was pregnant with our second, his car had to go. Oh, but the way this man tried to jerry-rig it so that we could fit two car seats in that back seat. I swore one of our babies would end up strapped down with bungee cords and duct tape. He was adamant, convinced he could make it work. But after one too many fights with those seatbelts and realizing we would need a shoehorn to wedge a second car seat in there, he finally caved. We bit the bullet and upgraded his car to a minivan.
And he’s been driving that minivan ever since—poor guy. Every time starts the van, I can see a small part of his soul die. The man who once lived for the thrill of accelerating down open highways now finds himself navigating the chaos of school drop-offs, wrestling with sliding doors, and becoming intimately acquainted with the joys of the kids’ snacks permanently lodged between seats.
While I can appreciate the convenience of carting around our little horde and their endless parade of dance and other sports gear, school projects, and random sticks they collect on walks, I have to be honest: I hate the minivan. It’s a loathsome beast. Boxy, slow, and just so practical. There’s something about driving it that feels like admitting defeat.
However, this past week, our minivan has finally met its end. Or, more accurately, it gave us the death rattle we had been dreading. We took it in for routine maintenance, only to be met with the mechanic’s sad eyes and the dreaded words: “It’s going to need more work than it’s worth.”
So here it is, my elegy to the minivan.
Oh, minivan, you noble steed of suburbia. You were a reluctant but faithful companion. You hauled our kids and their sticky fingers, muddy cleats, backpacks bursting at the seams. You carried us through sleepless newborn nights, chaotic grocery runs, countless road trips filled with spilled juice boxes, and even the occasional drive-through therapy session with Starbucks in hand. You were the soundtrack of our family life, filled with Disney sing-alongs and heated debates over which podcast to play next.
Sure, you weren’t glamorous. You were never the car I imagined myself in, waving to my old, single, childless self with her sleek sedan and dreams of sporty convertibles. But you showed up for us when it mattered. You endured the spilled snacks, the crayon marks, and the occasional tantrum (not just from the kids). You were there for the moments that mattered, like when we drove to the hospital when I went into labor—again—and our move to Connecticut, bikes loaded for rides at the park, and soccer practices under a setting sun.
