The minivan swagger & swoon

This is hard to admit.

But once in a while, I am wrong. And I was wrong about minivans.

A decade ago, as a child-free, young professional with minimal responsibilities, I was unaware of the awesomeness of the mascot of Mommy World.

I scoffed at the prospect of cruising around the city in a mom ride. I would never be so lame.

Me, 2002: “I will never drive a minivan. If I have too many kids to fit into a car or SUV, then I have too many kids.”

Me, 2012: Owner of two – yes, two – minivans that are entirely necessary for transporting our family of seven.

Despite my vow never to drive a vehicle advertising my status as someone’s mom, I now lovingly call my Honda Odyssey “My Precious” (a Lord of the Rings reference, not a reference to the novel Push, by Sapphire).

This deep affection is inspired partly by the amazing Turbo Robot Doors that magically glide open to welcome the pitter-patter of wet snowboots and muddy sneakers, though mostly because it comfortably holds three car seats, two booster seats, a double stroller, a pack-n-play, a small vacuum cleaner, jumper cables, three umbrellas, a variety of empty juice boxes, a metric ton of crushed graham crackers, a stack of beach towels, Little League miscellany, half a dozen discarded pacifiers, and approximately 1.3 million LEGO bricks and minifigures.

Not to mention eight people, if necessary.

Our second minivan, or as the kids call it, “Daddy’s Red Van” (I’ll refrain from sharing my personal nickname for it, as this is a family publication), is a road-weary, cranberry-hued Chrysler Town and Country that has survived more than its fair share of mishaps, neglect, and abuse at the hands of our eldest three passengers. The youngest twins were not quite a year old when I handed Tim the keys to the Red Van and adopted My Precious, so they get a pass. This time.

The magnitude of the wreckage at the hands of my then-3 year old daughter and 5 year old twins was staggering. No matter how much I power scrubbed with my Bissell Little Green Machine, sprayed Febreze, or left the windows open, from the back rows emanated a slightly offensive whiff of old milk and wet dog.

Of course, we don’t have a dog, so the origin of the Great Stink of 2010 remains a mystery.

Red Van’s former driver may or may not have been responsible for some of the, ahem, “exterior cosmetic issues.” I maintain that the pole in the church parking lot jumped right out in front of me, and we were lucky the only damage was a small-ish scrape and dent the size of a basketball on one of the doors.

It is barely noticeable.

No comment on the current driver’s level of care, as surely it has been flawless. Though I must point out that Daddy’s Red Van is hauling a mere 17 percent of the mess-makers that it carried a year ago.

The Stow-and-Go seats are in Stow mode, and we utilize the space as you would expect to use the bed of a pickup truck. Need to bring home a swing set from Walmart? No problem! Found a great deal on mulch? Load ‘er up! A friend needs help moving? Oh, sorry, we don’t have a pickup truck.

Red Van might not be the envy of the neighborhood, but it’s practical, functional and versatile. It also has Turbo Robot Doors.

I’m not alone in my minivan swoon.

Two years ago, Toyota launched an ad campaign via viral video, marketing their Sienna minivan as “Swagger Wagon.” Their target consumers were parents whose carefree youth is a vivid but distant memory, yet who need a practical way to transport their offspring from soccer practice to Mandarin lessons.

The message was clear: It’s okay to love your minivan. Apparently, a lot of people agreed, as sales subsequently increased in both the Toyota Sienna and Honda Odyssey.

It’s not easy to tell the world (or southeastern Boone County, as it were) that I was once wrong.

But if loving my minivan is wrong, I don’t want to be right.