I had been warned that this day would come, but after seven years, three months, and twenty-seven days my Ford Edge (lovingly called Miles) finally became too unsafe to drive. When it became apparent that we couldn’t risk putting our family in that car anymore, my husband and I began to research our next new ride.
I’m a chronic Googler, and a quick glance at my search history provides an embarrassingly specific look at the inner workings of my brain and day-to-day life (such as “ibuprofen safe during breastfeeding” and “does my baby hate life”). This time, I searched “best not minivans for moms.” (Telling, right?)
While looking through lists and lists of crossovers and SUVs, I came across an article called “Parents, Just Buy the Damn Minivan.” Of course this piqued my interest, as that was exactly what I was trying to avoid. I was even more shocked when I told my car sales agent about it and she laughed sheepishly.
“I was going to say the same thing,” she said. “Minivans have come a long way…I can’t wait to get one myself.”
Fast forward to car buying day, and my husband and I pull up to the lot, where I begrudgingly tell the sales people that we’re there to look at “anything with a third row.” The first thing they showed me was my Chrysler Town & Country. I fell in love immediately.
Now, there are so many benefits to this car. My new ride has separate climate control for every row, captain’s chairs, a DVD player, an AC adapter, so many cupholders, sliding doors, track lighting… I could go on and on. But the biggest thing about it? It’s truly a family car. It was designed with road trips, Costco and safety in mind.
Buying it certainly made me feel more like a mom, that’s for sure. What surprised me was how little I minded. It’s a great car, and it reminds me of the minivans my parents drove when my sister and I were growing up. Except, of course, with leather seats.
Truth is, I didn’t become a mom when I bought the car. I became a mom when I had my baby. Buying the “family car” just reinforces and underlines my shifting set of priorities—it’s all about her now. And I don’t mind.
Besides, who wouldn’t want to roll in a swagger wagon?