Saying Goodbye

Our minivan became a part of our family when Daughter 2 was just three days old. We bought her online and then drove to Tulsa to pick her up. Knowing that I would be an emotional wreck, having just given birth, The Dad called ahead to make sure it'd be a speedy process. Three hours later, we drove away in the van. I sat backwards on the toilet because the stall was so small and nursed Daughter 2 while waiting for paperwork. I cried all the way home.



Well, yesterday, I cried all the way home again. My beloved minivan--almost nine years old--had lived a full and decent life. She'd driven us to soccer games, softball games, basketball games and the beach. She'd taken us through the McGaggle's drive-through more times than I care to admit. (Oh, what the hell: approximately 936 times, give or take a hundred.) She'd been pee'd in, puke'd in, played in and pounced upon. But, the truth was this: She had figuratively and literally come to the end of her road.

Her battery cables only connected when the wind was out of the southeast (or something like that). Her driver's side seatbelt came unhooked at will and often times that same seat would, at random, slide the driver right into the steering wheel. She shimmied when you used the brakes or went over 85 miles per hour. Her tint was peeling. Her radio was static-y. Her glove compartment wouldn't open.  And, to top it all off, her trunk--after having a fight with some junk we'd tossed back there--wouldn't close without a hefty heave-ho. It was time.

We had to get rid of her.

The Dad investigated all the options and Saturday, we made arrangements to (gulp) let her go--for fair market value.

The Dad and I sat in our seats, side-by-side, and waited on the paperwork to be completed. It turned out that this was a harder process than I thought.

"Are there any last words you have to say to her?" our case worker asked. (The Dad actually thinks he asked if we had everything out of the van, but the heart hears what it wants to hear.)

I swallowed hard. I would not get emotional over this goodbye.  Our case worker stood to go retrieve our paperwork.

I looked at The Dad through tear-filled eyes and asked, "If the junk in my trunk causes me to stop working right, will you sell me."

He stared at me sans emotion and said, "What?"

"If my tint starts peeling and my batteries don't stay charged, will you sell me?" I questioned with a quiver in my voice.

"Will I sell you?" The Dad whispered.

"If I ram you into the steering wheel while we're going sixty miles an hour down the highway will you get rid of me?" I whimpered.

He sighed, leaned in to me and softly whispered, "Honey, I think you need hormone therapy."

I stormed to the bathroom, sat backward on the toilet, and in my own way, I bid my minivan goodbye. Sniff, Sniff.

In my heart, I'll always be a Minivan Momma!