Giving Up My “Cool Mom” Card

Giving Up My “Cool Mom” Card

Five years ago, my husband and I declared that we would never—under any circumstance—be one of those couples who cave after a few children and purchase a minivan.

This past Wednesday, my husband and I journeyed through the snow and slush up to the exquisite horse farms in Lexington and purchased a minivan.

We’ve had our Subaru Forester—with the clown horn and gold paint job, which caused my husband to coin it, in a mocking tone, “Goldilocks”—for only two and a half years.

However, it has electrical problems, the cruise control doesn’t work, the transmission is questionable, and it misses constantly, so that sometimes I am afraid I am going to be stranded in traffic.

Despite all of this, I am deeply, deeply attached to my Goldilocks. I have actually never had a car that I love more.

(That might be because my first four vehicles were clunkers—requiring me to pop the hood and hook up the battery before I went anywhere—but I digress. . . .)

Therefore, feeling defensive of Goldilocks, I glowered and muttered beneath my breath as the salesman led us across the snow-covered parking lot and showed us the wondrous attributes of the, gasp, minivan.

“I’m going to be honest,” I heard the salesman say. And, safe inside the vehicle, I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. “My manager was a little upset that I’m giving y’all such a good deal.”

I clambered out of the vehicle and wiped imaginary dust from my hands. I jerked the van’s sliding door closed and pointed. “There’s a dent.”

“I was just in the middle of showing that to your husband.” I noticed the salesman was no longer smiling.

Back inside, my husband and I stood by the vending machines and discussed the purchase.

“I’m not even thirty!” I wailed. “I am not ready for a minivan!”

But we were actually getting a good deal—such a good deal, in fact, if I really hated the minivan, my husband promised we could sell it this summer when it goes up in Blue Book Value (all those beach road trips) and make a profit.

So, I caved—feeling my cool mom card falling right off of me with a clunk. Maybe, I consoled myself, I could get some spinner rims, a monster sound system, and a pair of fuzzy, leopard dice?

We told the salesman we were ready to sign papers. He told us to have a seat in the waiting area. And we sat and we sat and we sat. I picked at my split ends, then my cuticles, and sang along with every country song playing over the radio.

The lyrics of which, we all know, could make Al Capone sentimental.

“But we brought our daughter home from the hospital in Goldilocks!” I cried.

I remembered my daughter’s tiny form swallowed by the spanking new car seat and how I’d wanted to ask the nurse who was helping me out to the vehicle if she wanted to come home with us, too.

I remembered how carefully my husband had driven us home; how we’d looked at each other and then at the miracle tucked in the back seat of our first family car–exhausted, terrified, and excited all at the same time.

This memory was the last straw. The welling tears spilled as my husband and I sat next to a $100,000 sports car whose engine was handcrafted by Nokimoji Sahkakki. As smarmy salesmen clattered back and forth, filling orders and passing out cards to guys with popped collars and highlighted hair that didn’t come from a box.

I cried, and I laughed because I was crying. I knew—without a doubt—that I was being ridiculous. Wiping my eyes, I glanced over at my husband, who was just smiling and shaking his head.

“You’re a mess,” he said, but with great affection.

“I think I’m just not good at change.”

“I meant what I said. If you hate it, we’ll sell it.”

“Okay.” I breathed out. And we were finally called back to sign papers.

The woman behind the desk had carrot-red hair and tanning-bed skin and wore loops of saltwater pearls and a chunky gold necklace and earrings with a tight sweater and jeans.

“You need to sign here,” she said. “And here. And here. And here.”

One by one—bracelets jangling—she pushed the papers across to us. “You’re getting a real good deal.” She eyeballed us over her rhinestone glasses. Her eyeshadow matched her lime-green sweater.

I smiled. “We both said we’d never get a minivan, but you know how that goes.”

“Now that I’m a grandma,” she said, “my daughter keeps trying to get me to get a minivan, but I just can’t do it. I can’t give up that part of myself.”

I almost laughed as I imagined us passing each other on the road—me in my spaceship minivan and this hot grandma zipping past in her $100,000 sports car with an engine handcrafted by Nokimoji Sahkakki.

And suddenly I realized that, if I had to choose between a sports car and getting to wrench my shoulder out of socket whenever I pass another juice box back across the minivan seat to my toddler, I would happily give up my “cool mom” card every time.

Now tell us some stories! When did you know you were giving up your “cool mom” card? 😉