Death of a Soccer Mom
Saying goodbye to the uncool car that carried a whole era of motherhood
This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.
What Chapter Are You…
Leaving:
A family of six fragmenting as my eldest goes off to university and twins move on to high school.
In:
I'm not an empty nester, but my kids aren't little anymore.
Entering:
The end of an era, but a new beginning and new adventures for all of us.
I think I’m dying.
Except for my creaky knees, graying temples, and the ache in my chest, there is no sign of death or decay.
Instead, as I’ve come to realize, my physical body is fine. It’s my sense of self, the idea of who I am, that is changing.
All because of a stupid car.
My husband keeps asking me, “What’s the trouble? What’s the holdup?”
Why am I delaying the inevitable? Why can’t I just get rid of our minivan — the one the kids all hate to be seen in, the one that needs new tires and will probably need new brakes right after that — the one that has become, frankly, a little embarrassing even for me?
Let’s face it: a minivan, especially a red one, is uncool. And I’ve been uncool for a very long time. Thirteen years, to be exact. It’s been thirteen years since we got our first red minivan, right after learning we were expecting twins.
I already had a toddler, and we knew there was no fitting three car seats in a regular vehicle. So I gave up my Ford Escape, which I’d barely had time to enjoy, and surrendered to the very large red bus era.
Over the years, that minivan has taken us to hockey tournaments, road trips, and countless shuttles back and forth to school, dance, and soccer. We’ve camped out in it for our annual drive-in movie theatre pilgrimages. I’ve stuffed bouncy castles into it and wrestled bouncy castles out of it. We’ve watched movies inside it. We’ve played, fought, and cried in this minivan, and in the one that came before it, the OG we retired during the pandemic for an upgraded model.
Together, those two red minivans have been the backdrop for countless treasured family memories.
Dare I say it: I wouldn’t be the mom that I am without them.
And now that I have to say goodbye, it feels like grief.
In a couple of months, my eldest son, my high school graduate, is going off to university. My twins will be starting high school. And our days will never look the same again.
No more fighting in the morning to get everyone in the car at the same time. No more jostling for the front seat or control over the music. Everyone will be moving to a different rhythm, their own rhythm, as my kids splinter off toward their own new adventures.
I’m no longer a mom who is smothered by her children. I’m also not an empty nester.
I have four more years of the twins making a mess of the kitchen. And I have many more years on top of that, thank God, of driving my youngest, my daughter, between dance practices, sleepovers, birthday parties, and school.
Any yet, the end of an era is undeniable.
After months of graduation celebrations and goodbyes, the changes are happening fast. It’s true what they say about the days being long and the years being short. All of a sudden, the days and weeks and months feel like minutes, and I’m standing here freaking out, begging everyone to please stop and freeze long enough for me to take a picture so I can remember this blur of a season.
Anytime anyone comments on all my kids graduating from one thing or another, it prompts another burst of tears and uncontrollable sobbing. Pretty cool parlor trick, actually. Just try it and you’ll see.
I know I’m lucky. I know how fortunate I am to have four healthy, beautiful children. I know that even though they’re growing up before my very eyes, we’re all still here.
I’ve been hearing about empty nesters forever. I’ve always known that time would come. But when you’re just trying to get through each day, keeping up with school and homework and extracurriculars and careers, it’s easy to lose sight of the finish line.
And anyway, nothing can prepare you for grief. Not really.
So, I am dying. The version of me who drove that minivan for thirteen years, smothered in children.
And a new one is beginning.
I’m so excited for all my kids. I’m excited that my eldest is going off to university, where he will live on his own, take courses he is genuinely interested in, and meet new people. Plus, a meal plan and a 24-hour kitchen. (Can I come?)
I’m also excited for my twins and praying that maybe now they will finally care about school and try a little bit harder.
And I’m excited for my youngest daughter, who finally gets to have the front seat every morning and choose her favorite song on the drive to school.
Not least of all, I’m excited for me, and for what my mom pointed out: the chance to be myself full-time, instead of squeezing everything I want into the corners of the day my kids don’t fill.
That version of me is coming to an end, just in time for a new one to emerge.
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