Dear Chocolate Thunder,
As you know, life around here is pretty busy these days. I feel like every time we load you up it’s a stressful whirlwind of missing shoes and forgotten sippy cups and grouchy demands for snacks (mostly from me). Our time together recently may not seem “quality” in the traditional sense—no long drives out in wine country or leisurely tailgates on game day—but our time now is still special to me. And I am writing to you to share some things that I want you to know.
It may seem like I neglect you, and it’s true: I cannot remember the last time I took you through the car wash, and the way I let my children treat you is abominable. I have let your outside get so dirty that I shriek out a warning to my children when they get close to rubbing up against you, knowing that if they do I will need to change their clothes and wipe the grime from their hands. Your interior is not much better. The sticky and crumbly leavings of my one- and three-year-olds cover every inch of you, and—should I dare to look—are certainly to be found deep in the dark creases of your Scotch-Garded upholstery. Please forgive me for standing by as you fall into this state. I don’t shower much these days either. But know this: I see into your car-heart, and it is spotless and completely free of Goldfish crumbs. Your soul, or whatever it is that cars have, is pure and good and radiates warmth outward to all your passengers. And so I write to you this letter.
I write to thank you for your dependability. You get us from place to place, of course, but more than that, you provide for my family and me a sanctum of travel. You are our living room on wheels—emphasis on the living. Back-seat nursings, front-seat nursings, diapers that have been changed on every surface of you… Part playground, part lounge, part storage unit, part trashcan, part dressing room, part changing table, and part café… A true gestalt, you are greater than the sum of your parts. I feel confident that if we ever get stuck on the side of the road in the incredibly unlikely event of a blizzard, we would survive. The snacks tucked into the cups and pockets, the random articles of (everyone’s) clothing that are scattered about, and the necessary baby supplies of diapers, wipes, and pacifiers assure that we would be fine until help arrived.
And oh, the things you have seen!
Remember that hot day in August in a parking lot far from home? I was nine months pregnant, Big Sister was approaching two, and she had the biggest poopie diaper I had seen in a while. And she decided to resist the change, as she always does, so there I was: my big belly and I climbing around in the trunk after a pantless child as best as we could in triple-digit temperatures. Remember? When it was over, your AC cooled my body and calmed my frazzled nerves, and you showed no concern for the stink rising from the back.
You have heard me sing the ABCs as loudly as I could in order to calm—and perhaps drown out—a screaming baby. You have heard me sing a lot, and usually pretty poorly, but you’ve never winced at the flat notes. You have heard me play classical music and songs in French in an attempt to stimulate baby brain growth, and never once have you poo-pooed the idea. Together we have scanned the radio for anything that would please the discerning ear in the back seat. Do you remember that afternoon of between-station static that worked surprisingly well?
You have been the family grocery-getter. How many times have we loaded you up with provisions for the family? Like a million? And please don’t misinterpret my rejection of “help out to the car” as a slight against you. I would be happy to have them meet you, maybe someday when I remember to take the double stroller out on grocery day, and maybe when there are less wet diapers rolling around in the back of the trunk. Not that I am embarrassed. Because I’m not. It’s just…well…groceries are our thing, and I guess I just don’t want to complicate this relationship any further. I hope you understand.
How many hours of sleep have my two little ones logged in your back seat? Together we have struggled with the options available with a sleeping baby in a car seat: take him inside? do some drive-through errands? attempt the transition to the bed? We have had our share successes and failures on that front, haven’t we? And when I was so grateful for the baby to be sleeping at all and decided to just let the peaceful thing finish her nap in the driveway, we kept each other company, checking Facebook and opening mail in the cozy confines of your cabin, awaiting the angel to awake.
But it hasn’t all been peaceful babies, has it? I appreciate that you have borne silent witness to many a car-seat battle. I almost cringe to mention them, as these are not the high points of my parenting career. You have seen me begging, bartering, backtracking, and being pushed and pulled over the edge of all reason and sanity by a small child (with the strength of a thousand elephants, mind you) who did not want to be buckled in. But you did not judge. You did not interfere. You stoically waited for the battle to end and then moved on. I admire that in you: your ability to move on, to drive on, to the next stop, and then go on from there again.
My ex, the car before you—I know, I know, it seems rude to even bring her up. She was a good car, and I got her thinking for sure that in a few years she would be taking the kids and me to soccer practice. Fast forward ten years and I was still driving the soccer-mom car, but not in the carpool lane. It didn’t work out with that car; I guess that’s life, right? I don’t want to get ahead of myself here, and I don’t want to scare you off, but I think you might be the one, the car that I take my kids to soccer practice in. You may even be the car that drives to their high-school graduation. Perhaps I am getting ahead of myself; I made that mistake last time…
But let me say this: I like the way you have just what I need, right where I need it. My tinted chapstick wedged in the console for when I need a quick makeover. The hand sanitizer for when life throws gross stuff our way but does not offer soap and water. The ballpoint pen, good for drawing a smiley face of courage on a nervous girl’s hand. The Elsa and Anna tattoos, waiting patiently to be used as incentives for any number of behavior modifications.
All this reminds me: we must forgive my husband. He did not know the extent of the repercussions set off by his cleaning of the car. He did not know the importance of the hidden Dum-Dum lollipops. Nor did he understand that the six pairs of kid’s sunglasses were, in fact, ALL needed to keep the peace on a sunny day. He meant well, and he was trying to do good and to help us. The stale smell of cheerios and fruit snacks do not comfort him as they do me. And so we should embrace him for his attempt to understand our world and our symbiotic life together. Fear not! The organized chaos will grow back, and we will feel whole again before we know it.
Truly, I love you for all your support. You have been there for many of our family’s major moments. The day we brought home Little Sister, for example. You have seen me as I am when no one else is looking. Like on Big Sister’s first day of school: we dropped her off and then, after I made sure my daughter was fairly content with her new phase of life, I sat in you in the school parking lot and sobbed. I worried I had abandoned my child to strangers, that she would be hurt or scared or hungry or cold—maybe all of the above—and I would never know because the strangers I entrusted with one of the most valuable things in my life would never tell me. But I was so proud of her, becoming a big girl and playing with other kids and coloring and using glitter and forming relationships with her teachers. I felt old, and I felt helpless, and I felt time speeding away from me. And you held me in my emotional torrent. I was not alone; you were there. You did not tell me my feelings were wrong or crazy; you did not try to talk me down or reason my worries away. Sitting in your still interior, you let me cry. And then you took me to Starbucks.
I love you, C.T., and I am grateful for you. Thank you for being part of our lives. Here’s to more memories together (and fewer car seat battles).
XOXO,
Jess
