There’s nothing mini about choosing the minivan

My family purchased its first minivan recently.
The sentence, as it read right there, doesn’t look nearly as daunting as the decision to buy one was. When you’re young, a car is more than a way to get around. It’s a reflection of you. And the reflection I get when I imagine driving a minivan around is more like a funhouse mirror to my still-young soul.
Reality finally set in on us, though. When I drove my wife’s car in the last six months, my knees stuck into my chest as the baby seat pushed the driver’s seat so far forward. Our dreams of driving a Mustang with the top down to the beach will have to remain dreams until the kids are grown. We needed space, and we needed it soon.
So we went to a local dealer and bought the minivan. It’s a necessary evil. Even though we have a 6-month-old now, a new sibling will join her in September.
I can hear the question already: Was it an “oopsie”? Of course not. We knew what we were doing when we drove to the dealer. We bought that minivan on purpose, even if it was against our will.
I felt the shame of a father when we started walking through the lot. An eager salesman asked what feature we most wanted in our next vehicle.
I would’ve liked to say a V-6 engine. Or maybe fuel economy. Or perhaps a cool front panel that made it look like I was piloting the space shuttle.
I didn’t get a chance. My wife blurted out the top priority first: A DVD player for the kids.
And that’s how we picked our tricked-out rectangular box on wheels. It has everything I never thought I’d need in a vehicle, such as an electronic key, powered sliding doors on each side and a side window that goes up and down.
I guess as a nonminivan driver, I’d taken windows that open and close for granted. It’s apparently not a standard feature in most minivans. Apparently, we’re quite lucky that ours do.
Unfortunately, one option we couldn’t find was our youth. For both my wife and I, the minivan was the last in the collector’s series of a Norman Rockwellesque life. We already have the four-bedroom house on the edge of town, the big backyard and those 2.2 children. Now we have the minivan.
Don’t get me wrong; we want those things that go with the “good life.” We just cherished our youth and independence so much, it’s sad when your life becomes the cliché for a family.
Each of the cars I’ve owned said something about my personality at the time. My 1978 Toyota Corolla said high school and college student struggling to get by, much less around. The 1994 Chevrolet Beretta said recent grad coming into his own but still using someone else’s cast-offs. And that 2002 Dodge Neon, my first new car, said confident man with the flash and stability of a decent and exciting job.
Now there are two cars in my name, the minivan and a middleaged man’s sedan. Neither of them says anything I predicted a car would ever say about me. They both say stable, comfortable family man doing all right for himself — and for his family.
The built-in DVD player entertains our 6-year-old daughter. The sliding doors make it easier to get our 6-month-old girl in and out, and it’ll have that same benefit when Baby No. 3 comes along. The heated seats are for my loving wife, who always feels a chill.
And it’s OK that there isn’t anything in there for me in particular. One realization I’ve had as I get older is I’m not the most important person in my life anymore. These days, I rank somewhere around No. 5. That’s a good thing. I’ve grown up enough to care about my family more than myself.
That’s not to say I’m not still a little vain about things, even the new minivan.
As I drove the minivan that first day, I told my wife how cool the front of the vehicle looked, with all its lighted gauges and touch screens. We’re talking about satellite radio, a hard drive for music and videos, everything. I’m convinced they put those gizmos in there to keep the guys feeling like they’re operating a lean, mean, high-tech driving machine.
I can feel completely cool in it, as long as I never look back.