Captain Me Planet

I think my daughter rocks. Of course, I’m her mother. But my observation of her yesterday in her co-op classes, as I was teacher’s helper, really makes me proud.

She didn’t listen to one word of the history lesson.

Why?

She didn’t like her teacher’s outfit.

And this, I think, is hysterical.

I saw her. Eying Mrs. Green. Up, down, watching. And I knew she was not absorbing the intimate details of the ancient catacombs under the streets of Rome. Sure, it’s interesting that the first Christians were so persucuted that they had to dig for their lives in an effort to escape. But Mrs. Green’s outfit? Whew.

On the way home, she told me her profound thoughts. First, I asked her if that was the teacher that barked at her once for answering a fellow classmate’s question. Sho’nuff. I could just tell.

Then, she said, Mom, Mrs. Green only has 2 skirts. And they’re both ankle length. One is denim and the other is khaki. And she only wears those to teach each week. Back and forth, back and forth. You think those are the only sort of bottoms she owns? Or does she like them? And today was the first day she wore flip flops with them. She usually wears white walking shoes.

Love it. Other children are absorbing the agony of the days of the ancient Christians. My girl is sizing up Mrs. Green’s wardrobe. And not too fondly, at that.

My old Previa. Aaaah. My paid for car. The car we bought 0 down, paid out over 5 years, from Carmax, 6 moves ago. She has just been replaced.

Oh my Previa. When we first bought you, you were the first minivan I ever drove. And my hatred of such a genre of car swiftly became intense love as I experienced how far back the children could actually get. How many diaper bags and pack ‘n’ plays you could hold. You held me up, high in my captain’s chair, with excellent visibility, and played cassette after cassette after cassette of Arthur stories, and Thomas tales. We driven to Texas and back, 4 times. Loaded you with Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving and beach gear. You brought our new baby home from the hospital, 5 and a half years ago, and drove us out to my parents’ lake house for recouperation time.

You’ve heard a few arguments. Seen some tears. Been present for dream sessions, when we needed to figure out where our life would go next. And you’ve held approximately 1, 260 Happy Meals in your lifetime with us. I did the math.

I’ve changed hundreds of diapers on your floors. Taught my boys how to pee in a bottle when there was no clean restroom on your seats. Taught myself and my daughter how to use a ziploc on the way home from New Orleans, shortly before the devestating hurricane, when we were stuck in rush hour traffic. You helped us travel the city before she would never be the same. Oh, Previa. We owe you so much.

You’ve seen 7 different carseats between our 3 children. Watched us leave 2 of them in dumpsters across the country when they were yarfed uncontrollably upon. You didn’t tell when I just held the children in the back, while they recovered and we found a WalMart to get another. Or when a baby was so hungry, I just crawled back there in your warmth, and nursed them.

I’d like to say you kept us cool and comfy in the heat of the southern summers, but alas, this has never been your forte. Regardless, for all the rest that you’ve done for us, we keep putting the miles on you, happy that you are ours.

But now, you have a replacement. The years have caught up with you. Your little AC motor that tried, is weakening, and we’re told it is obsolete. You need more put into you now, than maybe your financial value is worth, but never more than you are worth. And dear Previa, you’re getting a little rough around the bumpers. Rusty. But still dear to us, all the same.

We know there is a family out there, who really needs you. One that has children to cart, and very little money with which to purchase a vehicle of your caliber. And will recognize that 153, 000 miles of love doesn’t mean you don’t have more in you. You are…a Toyota.

So we bought the Mazda MPV last night. No, don’t fret. She’s not brand new. She is, however, 5 years old, instead of your valiant 15. She happens to look almost just like you. This, I think, is testimony to our fondness for you. She is not better than you, and never will be. But we felt the time had come. As she sits behind you in the drive this morning, I hope you’ll teach her a thing or two. How to not let the children fall out of the back door when they disobediently unbuckle and scramble to find the lost toy. How to keep chugging when it seems you’ve run out of gas miles and miles ago. You never let me down. How to go, and go, and go with so little repairs necessary.

And for you? We have a plan. We will invest a little TLC, and find that family you are destined to continue on with. Just never forget us, and that moment we first saw each other, that early winter evening in 1999, as you sat in the Carmax parking lot, with seemingly a beacon shining upon you.

You have served well. You have been loved. Adieu, my dear Previa, adieu.

My Old Car

Our Motto

Wear and Tear, Private 3 style

Old Mobile Mission Control, and Max

Our miles together, starting at 63K

The New Car

My New Mobile Mission Control

the cup holder that will hopefully prevent so much spillage. right.

the yet undefiled back seat. today.

May we travel the many miles together, as well as our time with my Previa.