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She isn’t cool, but she gets it done.
In 1983, the first minivan rolled off the production line, and moms everywhere went crazy, snapping those things up like Cabbage Patch dolls at Christmas. Coincidentally, I had also just started elementary school. I went to Catholic school, so there were no buses, just frazzled moms in new Dodge Caravans, slurping coffee while carting two rows of uniform-clad hooligans to the drop-off circle. Our neighbors had a sweet powder blue number, with matching vinyl interior that stuck to the backs of my legs. You’d have to peel yourself off when you arrived at school. Good luck if you were trying to beat the bell, the one door and all.
As much as I wanted my family to blend in with those in the sea of Caravans and Plymouth Voyagers in the school parking lot, my mom decided to be different and get a Ford Aerostar, which looked like it could have blasted off to the moon if turned 90 degrees. For long trips, my dad would take out the middle seats and my sister and I would spread out our Care Bear sleeping bags while he drove, pretending to camp (‘80s parenting safety alert!).
I swore I’d never own one, which is the kind of thing you can swear to when you’re childless. So smug! I had planned to be cooler, but having four kids necessitates an ease and a practicality that could only be found in the humble van. For kids one and two I drove a small SUV, but try fitting three car seats in one row—mission impossible. My engineer-trained husband tried it, and emerged sweaty and frustrated. “It can’t be done,” he said. So off we went to the Honda dealership, and drove off with our first minivan.
My friend names her minivans—Blue Thunder was first, now they’re on White Lightning. Mine haven’t had names, but they’ve carted home new babies, fit impossible car seats, hauled scooters and bikes and friends, run countless carpools of sweaty sports teams and hosted tailgate parties. It’s a junky archive, stuffed full of the detritus of child rearing. It is as practical as family life forces you to become. It is a vehicle for grown-ups.
Minivan sales peaked in 2000, when automakers sold nearly 1.4 million minivans to American families. The SUV has since taken over as the reigning family car, and about a dozen minivans have been discontinued in the last twenty years or so, including the Aerostar of my childhood. The final Ford model rolled off the St. Louis assembly line in 1997, the year after I finished high school. Spotting one on the road now is as rare as my kids sleeping in on a Saturday—almost never, and cause for marvel.
While scores of young families are rejecting them, minivans remind me of being young, and one day will remind me of my own kids being young. When I finally pull my current Odyssey into the dealership on her last rusty exhale, it will mean that our family has moved on to a new phase, when kids have exited the house and car seats and sports gear sit dusty in the garage. A phase that passes, even when in the thick of it, it seems forever.
So I toast that powder blue Dodge with the sticky seats, the Aerostar that doubled as a camper, and the two Odysseys of my own childrens’ youths. Thanks for being so uncool, and thanks for getting me there.
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