Lulu was a necessary evil—one that that I accepted. But I never really accepted it. You know what I mean?
I mean, hey, there are only so many options when you have 5 kids. And without going into too much detail, on a dark, dreary, starless night 3 1/2 years ago, standing in the parking lot of a car dealership in Central Phoenix, I looked up toward where the stars twinkle 364 nights of the year in Phoenix, and asked, “Why? WHY has no one designed a minivan that has racing stripes and a fully retractable roof (and is not called a minivan)?”
On so many levels, the minivan just didn’t work for me—conceptually, anyway. I simply didn’t deal well with what it implied. If my personality were to be encapsulated by a vehicle, it would be a combination of a Mercedes, Range Rover, and Prius: sleek and adventurous with a conscience.
Sidenote: David says that translates to expensive, reckless, and blunt.
Whatever.
Surprisingly—and I can admit this—on a few levels, Lulu did work for me. Like, the auto-open doors. Those were great. Except when the kids didn’t close them—like they were born in a barn or something—and the paging system in TJ Maxx announced over and over again, “Paging the owner of the blue Chrysler Town & Country with 19 Starbucks cups, 37 pounds of popcorn, and 29 snack wrappers falling out of it: your side door is ajar.”
As though anyone would steal anything out of there. It was practically a biohazard.
The double entertainment system with the satellite TV was nice, too. Until we’d had it for 27 minutes and it became a requirement for really long drives, like, say, to the grocery store half a mile away. And the kids fought for the entire 3.7 minutes over whether they were watch Nick Jr and the Disney Channel or Nick Jr and the Cartoon Network or OH MY GOD WHAT DID ANYONE DO BEFORE THEY COULD WATCH TV ON THE WAY TO THE GROCERY STORE!
But I have great news to share with those of you who feel the same way about your minivan.
The minivans of the world know when their time is up. They know when they’ve done their job, and when you’re ready to move on from them. They know even if you don’t. And they let you know in a few subtle glaringly obvious ways.
Lulu let me know in no uncertain terms that I no longer needed her. Here are 5 of the messages she sent me just last week:
1. The TV flat-out stopped working (which I was, of course, blamed for but I patted Lulu’s hood that afternoon and said, “Thank You Sweet Jesus.”)
2. The radio flat-out stopped working (which I was not thankful for, and I think I may have slipped in the language department when it happened; the words Holy and Hell may have been used in succession).
3. The automatic door would re-open just before it latched shut, prompting Henry to be certain there was a ghost in the car. If you know Henry, you know this caused serious problems for us at 3:00am.
4. We were told the brakes were shot—for the 4th time this year.
5. When I shut the car off (or stopped long enough to notice), a smell vaguely resembling burning oil mixed with chlorine emanated from the tailpipe. Seriously, it was bad. So bad that, more than once, the baristas at Starbucks almost wouldn’t let me leave the drive-thru for fear that I may not make it back the next morning.
So, as mentioned in my post on Advent traditions, we went to buy a new car the other night. And oh, how I love her. Or “Miss Stella,” as Nina refers to her.
“Do not touch the seat with your feet!” I snapped during our first ride. “Stella doesn’t like that.”
“Who the heck is Stella?” asked George.
I pulled over and instructed the kids that there was no gum chewing, eating, drinking, feet on the backs of seats, spitting, use of unkind language of any kind, or breathing with one’s mouth open whilst riding in Stella.
To which Henry (who is notorious for believing that the most appropriate repository for over-chewed gum is the space between his seat and the side of the car) replied, “Why would we do that? That thing’s a sweet ride!”
She really is. And I fully accept every single solitary TV-less, auto-open-door-less, trash-less inch of her.
