Stage Five

The Five Stages of Grief Are:

1. Denial

2. Anger

3. Bargaining

4. Depression

5. Acceptance

There’s no easy way to say this, so here goes:

We’re considering getting a Ford Transit Van.

I’ll give you a minute to collect yourself.

Good? Okay. First of all, let’s not pretend you aren’t laughing at me, as even my sweet Gran cackled in my ear when I told her what D and I were considering.

But, y’all, I have four kids. And four kids is a weird number, especially when they’re packed as close together like mine are. And in case you’re thinking, Damn girl, get yourself a Suburban I say this: have you sat in the 3^rd row of a Suburban lately? Because I have, and my knees impaled my meager, nursed-four-kids-boobs. I was folded up like a human taco, and it was ugly.

“But your kids are little, they’ll have more leg room than you!” True, for another 2 years, tops. Clearly you’re ignoring that these kids got half their genes from my husband, who at 6.6 feet tall is like an x-Man whose only superpower is the ability to cause cricks in the neck of anyone to whom he speaks. Let’s just say, I’m banking on my kids not being tiny, so they’re gonna need the leg room.

“Well then, get a minivan!” Dude, I have a minivan. And already I can’t go to Costco and the regular grocery store in the same trip…and you better believe I have to go to both stores to feed my growing brood. And forget road trips longer than an hour: between the car seats and the snack bags and single purse, there is barely room for the tablets that, until you have 4 kids, you will never know how necessary they are to the sanity of every person with the ability to perceive sound.

But look, I know they’re not cool. And I know to people with a normal-sized family that they seem like over-kill—I know this! But honestly, I see no other option.

So, for the sake of any other woman who might be faced with this decision, I’ve written this blog post. In solidarity and resignation of the fact that, in the same way the 18 years our kids live with us our bodies are not ours, so too our cars do not belong to us, but rather exist solely for the service of our children: to drive them to school, and soccer, and AWANA, and violin…and slowly, us to insanity.

Least you think I arrived at this decision lightly, let me tell you that even the man whose name is on the side of the local Chevy dealership recommended I get a Ford Transit van. I’ve thought so long about this that I even come up with some basic guidelines for operation that may or may not already be included the manual, like to not idle too long at intersections for fear that someone will hop on and expect to be driven to the next stop, to park across the street when we go to church so the youth group doesn’t pile in after Sunday service, and generally stay away from youth sports teams, construction crews, and prisoners cleaning up trash on the roadside.

I feel like the writing is on the wall on this one and I’m going to have to accept my fate in the most gracious way I can and it is in that spirit that I humbly offer these suggestions to any person who happens across this blog and who might also be working for Ford Motor Co.

“Transit Vans, we’re not even trying for sexy.”

“Transit vans, we won’t fit in a standard parking space, but your kids will be so far back you won’t have to listen to them complain about where you park.”

“Transit vans, not just for work crews anymore.”

“Transit Vans, where your cool goes to die at 13.1 MPG.”

Anyway, I’ll let you guys know when we get it. Not by way of another blog post but because we’ll be the only people in town driving one that doesn’t have the name of some kind of non-profit wrapped around the side.