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Car is a personal statement
By Debbie Farmer
Before I had children I used to drive a sleek sports car with tinted rear windows, leather seats and a trendy bumper sticker on the back. My car was a powerful statement about who I was--young, wild and free. After the birth of my two children I no longer feel young, the only wild thing in the car is my son before naptime, and my definition of freedom is driving alone to the grocery store to buy dishwashing liquid on sale.
So I gave up driving a sports car and acquired a family car, a reliable vehicle with four doors and a back seat big enough to hold two car seats.
It was practical, sleek and sporty--compared to a diesel truck. The only time it came close to the speed limit was when it was going down a steep hill, and if I was quick, I could turn up the radio, put my sunglasses on and pretend I was a teenager again until I reached the bottom.
As my children grew older, the family car evolved from a convenient mode of transportation to a cross between a storage closet and portable catchall drawer.
"Have you seen my tennis shoes?" my daughter asked one day before her soccer practice.
"Look on the front seat under your brother's baseball uniform, or inside the glove box between your homework project and the bag of microwave popcorn."
I decided to clean out the car when both doors wouldn't close all the way and my children reupholstered the back seat in early preschool artwork.
On Saturday morning, I pulled it onto the driveway and lined up an assortment of cleaning tools while my family milled around in the garage.
"What are you doing, Mom?" my daughter asked, confused.
"I'm tired of driving a car that looks like it belongs to a mother of two, " I said. "I want a car with a better image--one that says 'speed machine,' not 'washing machine.' "
I felt like an archeologist digging through the eras of our carpool past.
I discovered a layer of paperwork right underneath the fast food. I found notes from teachers that never made it home, old party invitations, and my daughter's kindergarten report card wrapped around an old piece of gum.
I kept digging until I hit the bottom layer, which contained unidentifiable broken objects and sand.
"What's that?" My daughter pointed to a bluish round object I had found under the seat.
"I'm not sure," I said. "By its location in the car it was lost sometime in the pre-broken-toy-post-sand era, which means it could be either kindergarten artwork or a teething ring."
I worked for the rest of the morning. When I was finished, my car looked sleek and spotless for the first time in six years. I ran my hand over the exterior proudly.
Then my husband reached over to open the door. "Stop!" I cried, throwing myself over the handle. "What are you doing?"
"I've got to take the kids to soccer practice by noon," he said. "And we're going to be late."
My husband loaded a cooler, several blankets and a stack of chairs into the trunk, while my children tossed their uniforms and water bottles in the back seat next to the supply of team snacks. As the car pulled out of the driveway, my son reached over and opened a bag of crackers. By the time we got to the end of the block, a new layer of debris had formed on the floorboard, and my windows had tic-tac-toe designs on the glass.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't turn my four-door family sedan into a sportscar. But I didn't mind. Its custom-smeared rear windows, crayon-upholstered seats and neon "honor roll student" bumper sticker made it perfect for cruising the carpool route through the subdivision. And even though it isn't sleek, fast or shiny, it is still a powerful statement about who I am.
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Willow Glen, California Since 1992
