Family Life: I promise to love, cherish ... and buy a minivan

By Christopher Noxon

LOS ANGELES (Reuters Life!) - In the life of a parent, the smallest things often make for the biggest milestones -- the ghostly wiggle on a first ultrasound, a baby's first laugh, the farewell of a kindergartner on her way to school.

Sometimes, however, parental milestones are all about buying stuff.

And so it was for me, six years ago after the birth of my second child, when it became clear that the time had come to trade my single guy car -- an aerodynamic, two-door Saab 900 -- for something with sliding side doors, dual-side airbags and a third row of seats.

It was time, in short, for a minivan. I knew it was the right choice. A minivan meant practicality, safety, comfort.

But a minivan also meant something else entirely. A minivan meant surrender. Men in minivans had settled completely into reliable, neutered domesticity.

Ads for minivans featured fluffy golden retrievers and kids in soccer uniforms. No one mentioned performance or horsepower.

It was all about cup holders. Raved one testimonial for the Honda Odyssey: "The 17 cup holders embarrass the competition."

My own Odyssey was described as granite green. It was only after I took it home and peeled off the dealership stickers that I realized how I'd been misled. The granite part was right. But there was nothing green about it. My minivan was grey. It was the exact color of a tombstone.

Life as I knew it was over. I had no idea what came next, but I feared it involved a lot more History Channel, Home Depot and Ben Gay. I knew I was being silly, but I couldn't help it.

MINIVAN MARKETING GOES COOL

I spent the next few weeks searching for a custom shop that would paint yellow and turquoise racing stripes from one bumper to the other.

Somehow, I thought all my anxiety would vanish the moment a stranger mistook my minivan for a Hot Wheel that had been miraculously enlarged to life size.

I never did get those racing stripes, but I over time I came to terms with my minivan. it may have lacked style or oomph, but it was undeniably cushy. It was a rolling living room. Every once in a while, however, I was reminded how deeply uncool I'd become.

One morning idling at an intersection I found myself singing along to a song from the Shrek soundtrack. Throwing my head back in mid-wail, I looked over and noticed a young woman in the car next to me. Of course she was gorgeous. And of course her expression was one of complete and utter pity. Then she peeled away in, wouldn't you know it, a convertible Saab 900.

One more kid and 80,000 miles later, my minivan was showing signs of wear and tear and, thanks to my kids' charming habit of lodging sippy cups deep into the upholstery, had developed the permanent stench of rotten juice.