After nearly a decade of marriage to the boy I “checked out”
at the library in high school, we made the decision so many young families
before us had made. It was important…monumental…financially
challenging. We were loathe to admit we
were in that stage of life, but with two young children and all their
associated paraphernalia, it had to be done.
Still, it felt stifling, stodgy, boring.
What was it??
It was a mini-van. We bought a mini-van.
Now, as far as mini-vans go, it WAS pretty sweet; it was a
2001 Pontiac Montana van…extended version, power everything, entertainment
system, recreational package…CUP HOLDERS GALORE! For 12 years, it provided us transportation
across the city, county, state and country.
And at first, much like any intimate relationship, it was a
true love affair. With young children in
tow, that entertainment system helped me distract their minds and mouths so I
could listen to Mommy’s music instead of the insipid Barney songs for which
they clamored. The power sliding door
was a God-send when arms were laden with groceries and a toddler who refused to
walk long after she rightly should have.
And the ample cargo space was perfect for driving across our nation to
visit siblings, grandparents and every rest-stop bathroom along the way. It held portable strollers, high-chairs,
playpens, bikes and endless supplies of diapers, snacks and stuffed animals.
Yes, the early days were wonderful. We had moved from a small bedroom community
to the established neighborhood in which I had grown up. My girls would attend the elementary, middle
and high school of my youth, and our ‘village’ was every bit as gloriously Stepford
as it had been when I was a child. Moms
gathered in the late afternoon on lawns, watching kids romp, turning a happy
hour into impromptu pizza dinners and sleepovers – sometimes a child, sometimes
a parent ending up on a couch! Our
mini-van parade carted each other’s kids from school to each other’s homes to
dance, soccer and scouts.
Life passed in a fog of mostly happy activity and exhaustion…naively
enjoyed with little thought to a future beyond the next day.
Gradually, though…ever
so gradually such that one wouldn’t really notice until looking back with that
perfect vision of hindsight…small cracks in the rosy veneer began to show. A stuck VCR tape…a head set thrown from the
sliding door and stepped on…forgotten snacks and beverages left to rot and mold
and stick to plastic cup-holders and hidden compartments. This family moved…that family divorced…another
stayed through illness, dysfunction, hardship.
The sweet Mom-tana began to show wear…stress…annoyance.
WE ALL began to show wear…stress…annoyance.
Then there were the unfortunate bumper-car years; the rear
hatch was frighteningly smashed by a semi-truck as I helplessly watched in my
rear view mirror. Not more than two days
after getting the van back in perfect shape from the collision shop, *I* backed
into a low-slung mailbox…crushing that hatch possibly even worse than the
semi-truck had. A few weeks after
that? I backed into my own mother’s car
in my own driveway. And then the man of
the house backed into ME in the same driveway a month or two later.
In parallel symbiosis, even my own body rebelled. Having taken up running after a 20 year
hiatus at age 40, I promptly acquired not one…not two…BUT THREE STRESS
FRACTURES in my femur. I developed
sciatica…plantar fasciitis…migraines. I
was a wreck.
Still we persevered; we weathered the financial storm of
four claims at once on our insurance. We
performed routine maintenance, we replaced a dead battery, constantly refilled
a leaky tire…recovered from each human physical set back. Each little blip would cause momentary
panic, provide a lesson to a frazzled mommy on how to check fluid levels, find
the nearest air hose, hire a new mechanic… learn to act our age and be realistic
in our physical goals.
And then we’d lie in
wait for the next storm…the naiveté gone, the innocence lost.
Soon mishaps began to occur more frequently. The a/c in the Mom-tana died. Coolant began to leak…often. The helpful sliding door stopped
sliding. Some mystery wire hung low,
scraping the street with every mile.
Still more coolant leaked. Grey hairs began to sprout exponentially. The man of the house experienced grave
employment issues and started his own business.
That provided still more…umm…INTERESTING…life lessons and trials.
We replaced the a/c system…fixed shocks and u-joints…replaced
gaskets and thermostats and water pumps…bought new brakes, new tires…I got my
hair dyed…A LOT…did still more work on the coolant system. We ran a business, hired an employee, fired
an employee, liquidated a business.
Along the way, I became a CEO, CFO and junior mechanic. Handy with a wrench, I could easily bleed the
coolant system and add fluid whenever I begin to over-heat. I could spot a tire low on air and fill it –
or hand my keys over to the custodian at
school to fill it up for me. I could
pretend to do the books, banking and tax preparation with skill.
We won’t mention the
time I accidentally authorized an online IRS payment for $100,000 over a
holiday weekend, resulting in the lock-down of all our accounts…
But the unending stress of living life this way took its
toll. The crack in the coolant system
gaskets mirrored the crack in my family life.
Nothing fit well anymore, nothing and no one was in sync. I tried new mechanics, more hair dye, new approaches. I prayed every prayer, read every book, tried
every professional approach or method to heal my vehicle, my family…my
marriage.
There were a few last ditch efforts. Final salvos launched at the problems life
presented. They would seem to work for a
short burst of time…and then fizzle. You
know…like the final rally a dying cancer patient often makes?
Final is the
operative word.
Last July, I filed for divorce. Believe me when I tell you
that it’s no small understatement to say that my heart, my dreams and my vision
for my life were all shattered. Ever the
eternal optimist and traditional family values girl, I thought I’d be married
forever. I thought if I tried just a
little harder, pushed a little more forcefully, gave it just a little more
effort…I could make everything all better.
I was wrong. The
marriage ended, I moved out, the union is null and void.
And then last week, in one last dying gasp, my sweet
Mom-tana spewed its amber toxic coolant waste once again.
Like me, it was weary.
Worn down.
Unable to convince itself that it had a future.
I did all the right things along the way...on both fronts. I babied that marriage and van. I loved them both unconditionally, through
thick and thin, for better and much worse, richer and insanely poorer – both financially
and in spirit. I sought professional,
mental and spiritual help several times over, working on each thing that was identified,
following rules and advice that were prescribed.
Sometimes there was cooperation; but after a while, all
systems failed; man and machine weren’t holding up their ends of the bargains.
Was it all for naught?
No. Oh, hell no…I have two
heart-breakingly beautiful daughters, perfect little replicas of their father
and I, the proof of a union ordained by God.
We had an amazing journey full of memories of all varieties, on every
level. We learned valuable lessons along
the way and came into our own whole beings.
Still… it’s come down to this: an end. Like knowing when to leave a party, you have
to know when to say goodbye to a long-time companion before you end up in an
unfortunate situation. No more willing
to find myself stranded on some road than I was willing to find myself or
anyone in my family stranded emotionally…we moved on. The Mom-tana is gone. The marriage is over.
And yet…it’s a beginning. Life moves on. New beginnings are granted.
The journey
continues.
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