A Fond Farewell to the Mom-mobile

(From my 2003 column in the Frederick area Gazette newspapers)

Losing a friend is always difficult, even when that friend wears steel-belted radials. Yes, after ten years of faithful service, my original mom-mobile has gone to the big junkyard in the sky.

Contrary to popular belief, a mom-mobile doesn’t need to be a particular make or model. Since I have just one child, mine was a little red Honda Civic. Yet her mom-ness was as unmistakable as if she were a minivan.

In the early years, the mom-mobile was still looking pretty cute. As an infant, my daughter, Caitlyn, was too small and powerless to be considered a weapon of mass destruction. Oh, sure, Baby Cait made the obligatory juice and formula spills. Her animal crackers made their way into every nook and cranny. But the real devastation was yet to come.

As my daughter grew, so did her accessories. The full-sized car seat was so large and awkward that I knocked off the mom-mobile’s door trim while trying to squeeze it into the back seat.

And have you ever tried to navigate a full-sized bicycle into the trunk of a Honda Civic? Let’s not even go there. It’s an ugly scene that involves scratching the paint, breaking fingernails and using language unbecoming a lady.

Within a few seasons, any mom-mobile worth her salt also develops an aroma all her own, crafted from a subtle blend of fermented formula dribbles, potty-training accidents and McDonald’s french fries. My own coffee spills and a complete set of antique junk food bags enhance both the aroma and the décor.

Visits to the veterinarian’s office also add character to a mom-mobile. Each and every time we embark upon this journey, I carefully cover the back seat with an extra large towel purchased solely for this purpose. And each and every time, Sunny the Wonder Dog carefully uncovers the seat and yaks up her lunch directly onto the fine upholstery.

Lest you think life as a mom-mobile requires only interior destruction, I’ll also give you a virtual tour of the exterior highlights. To your right, you’ll observe the scraped fender that resulted when toddler Caitlyn let out a blood-curdling scream just as I was trying to parallel park next to a retaining wall.

To your left, you’ll see the mom-mobile’s unique rear door. Its charming “distressed” finish and one-of-a-kind shape occurred one frazzled morning when I backed out of the garage without realizing that the passenger door was ajar. Later, I shredded the door gasket while trying to open the door with a coat hanger when I locked my keys inside after a frantic trip to the pediatrician’s office.

Yes, despite the years of abuse I heaped upon her, the mom-mobile was a dedicated team player, a real trouper who served me well. If she had been a baseball player, she’d be a shoe-in for the Hall of Fame. But since she was but a humble econo-box, I’ll just invite you to raise your sippy cup of apple juice to toast in her honor. To the mom-mobile. She was a classic.