One change in particular has me reeling a bit still. Over Easter weekend we traded in the Momvan.
|The Momvan, in all her dented, slightly rusted, taupe glory.|
ALL the doors when I pushed her buttons. Sure, the air conditioner died a couple years ago, but our favorite radio stations were programmed in and I could slap the rear view mirror into submission and make the rattling sounds stop when they became too persistent.
We bought the Momvan (used) when Mr. G joined our family almost eleven years ago. A woman leaves her ego at the door when she agrees to pack on 45 pounds of baby weight (stretch marks, sagging breasts, separated abdominal muscles, swollen feet and ankles free with purchase!). Pushing a stroller with a cup carrier, perpetually stained and strained and sleep-deprived, I understood I had no mojo left after my third son was born, so driving a minivan didn't seem like that big of a kick to my self-esteem.
Minivans are practical. The Momvan seated seven (enough room for each kid to bring a buddy!), provided plenty of cargo space (I've hauled lumber, bricks, trees, cattle troughs and furniture--no sweat) and got decent gas mileage for a bigger vehicle. Sure, she was an ugly tan and about as aesthetically pleasing as a leisure suit, but functionality trumps beauty. Especially after your kids have been trashing the interior with muddy shoes, food crumbs and grease, and karate weapons, you don't see much point in even trying to drive something nice. Heck, for the past year I only vacuumed the front seats and ignored the back altogether.
However. We're planning a family vacation to Yellowstone this summer and driving there in the Momvan gave us pause. No air conditioning through South Dakota in summertime? Forget that. And Mr. D's hybrid car is way too small for the five of us to go further than 150 miles before fisticuffs break out in the back seat, so what to do?
We told our car-fixing guy Al we were ready to start looking. Mid-March he called Mr. D and said he had the deal for us. Well, it was a heckuva deal for a "bridge vehicle." We wanted something to get us through the next 5-7 years, until a few people move out and I can downsize to something smaller (like a bicycle or a Vespa). We didn't want to spend a lot, but we wanted something comfortable, with air conditioning, seating for seven and reasonable mileage.
|Yes, this is how I plan to get around town after my kids move out. Because this is a totally realistic plan for someone living in northeast Wisconsin. Also notice how I will become effortlessly stylish and chic in this imagined future.|
|That, kids, is a Toyota Sequoia Limited Edition.|
|My muscle memory is challenged by the new dashboard arrangement.|
The trouble is, we don't know what to call it. It's not really a truck. It's definitely not a van. "Car" refers to Mr. D's hybrid, so that's out (too confusing) and "SUV" doesn't roll off the tongue (too many syllables). (Plus pretentious.)
Sequoia? Again, too long. Kids, get in the Sequoia! We're going to the park! That's clunky. Ditto "Toyota."
I don't want to name it a person name because I think it's weird. Kids, I'll be in Jane/Pablo/Louisa/Wilfred waiting until we leave! See what I mean? Sounds goofy.
It's amazing how frequently I have to refer to this vehicle on a daily basis, so I need to figure out what to call it but I'm stuck, so I'm putting the question to you, reader. What should we call this thing? I want to give it a short, snappy name. If I pick your suggestion, you get to brag to your friends about how you had naming rights for my new vehicle and I'll think of you fondly each time I say Kids! Time to load up the _____________!
Spill it, reader. What shall we call this thing?