Many of you as passengers who have come along for this wonderful Minivan ride have asked me exactly how I got such a sharp wit, such a quick humor, such a jocular (ridiculous?) look at life. And I've often times told you that some people are blessed with such things... I am blessed beyond measure with such things.
(OK - it was only one of you... and you had just consumed three glasses of sangria... but still - how nice of you to ask!)
While I absolutely believe that I am - indeed - blessed beyond measure, I do have to give credit where credit is due. So, in honor of my momma's birthday today, I'd like to share with you a little bit of exactly how I came to be. So, for those of you wondering whom to blame, um... I mean whom to give credit to for my amusing view of the antics that make up my life, you can totally fault the ORIGINAL Minivan Momma.
My formation started early. My entire childhood, my mother lied to me: See, everytime I asked my mom how old she was she would reply - without skipping a beat - that she was 16 years old. However, in the fourth grade, we learned word problems. I remember this one because I made a real-life connection: If Jonathan's mother is 32 years old, and Jonathan is 10 years old, how old was Jonathan's mother when she gave birth to him. Easy - this is a simple subraction problem. Jonathan's mother was 22 years old when she gave birth to him. What? 22?? That seems awfully old. OK - I'm 10 years old... let me figure this out. Ha! Did it! My mom six when I was born.
Six? Really? So, I went home and confronted my mom. Was she REALLY six when I was born? Was she really just 16 years old? And she looked me right in the eye and said "Yes...I was six when I ordere you from the orphanage. And don't believe everything you read in math books, dear!" Of course.
And when I turned 16, I realized that probably my mother was NOT 16 - either that or I am grossly behind the family tradition of having kids before puberty! It was an enlightening year when I was 16. It was in my 16th year that my mother became the original Minivan Momma. The first Dodge Caravan rolled off the Detroit assembly lines and onto the show room of a Dodge dealership about 2 hours away. It was the closest (and cheapest) minivan around and in the events of one afternoon, I became a bona fide chauffeur - the dream job of every 16 year old! While the minivan was my momma's, it literally served as my training wheels.
This was a win-win situation for my parents and for me. I was 16 and itching to drive. They were in their late 40s and early 50s and were tired. I seemingly was an easy child - my sister, The Baby, however was an energy sucker! (Or at least that's that way I remember it!)
When we would go visit family in Texas, I would drive! When we would take day trips for holidays or reunions or just weekend getaways, I would drive! My mom would sit in the passenger seat and snooze. My dad would sit in the middle seat and yell, "Quit fiddle-fartin' around!" when I would sing along a bit too loud with my boyfriend, Jon. (Know him? Jon Bon Jovi?)
About the time my dad would yell, "Quit fiddle-fartin' around!" and I was singing, "Shot through the heart and you're to blame, darlin' you give love...a bad name!" (Sing it with me - you know you want to!) My mom was rouse herself just enough to ask, "Are you too tired? Want me to drive?" This was such a laughable moment for me: I was 16! I was making believe that I was on stage with Jon and Ritchie! (I also pretended that my dad's "fiddle-fartin'" comment was a crazed fan.) I could go all night! My mom, however, couldn't make it out of the driveway without reclinging the captain chair (covered NOT in vinyl, but in maroon upholstry fabric!) and nodding off.
(As a funny side note: a few years back, my mom was asleep in the recliner in our house, while Law & Order blared on the TV and she roused just enough to ask Daughter 1 - who was four years old at the time - if she wanted her to drive for a while! Daughter 1 wasted no time in jackin' the keys and startin' the minivan before my mom came to!)
When I was 18, I packed up my ENTIRE bedroom. The ENTIRE bedroom. EVERY last unmatched sock. And I loaded it all into my mom's minivan and moved to college. I'm not entirely sure what I was thinking ... maybe that I would move to college and never see my family again. After all, college was a whopping 2 hours away! My mom never said that I didn't have to take everything to college. She never said that I would be returning home - a lot... as in every weekend! She never said those things because she was incredibly supportive in my making my own way in the world.
Or - now that I'm putting this is writing - maybe she was hoping I would make my way in the world and that would be the end of me! Nah - I'm sure it was the first one. And if she was hoping I'd spread my wings and fly far, far away for a long, long time, she was to be sorely disappointed when I returned home three days later - with a car full of stuff that wouldn't fit into a dorm room. And then returned home the next weekend. And the next weekend. And the next weekend. And the weekend after that! And never once didn't she grimace when she saw me pull into the driveway.
I think it was because she knew that she had a chauffeur for the weekend!
And now that I drive my own minivan and have my own high-maintainence kids (who are a lot smarter than I am - they figured out my real age early on!), I still make time to drive my mom around. Usually around the block and back home again - I don't have all day, ya know!
Happy Birthday, Mom!!
