Dad Isn’t the Driver Now

Fathers Day Thoughts

This week we sold our minivan. It was 16 years old and no longer needed. The days of intensive carpool ended last decade. Our son is launched into his life and our daughter has graduated college and is heading off to a PhD program in the Midwest.

But for a time, our lives revolved around the minivan.

A Dad saying good-bye to his minivan. If my children ever write a New Yorker memoir piece about me, this is the picture they’ll use. It’s just full-on dad.

Beyond the endless carpools, there were regular weekend adventures and longer trips to Boston, Ocean City, Philadelphia. Once we saw a car on fire on the Jersey Turnpike. When a wave wrecked my knee in Ocean City, I could stretch all the way out in the back. When we went to visit my brother near Philadelphia there was room for all of us, and my parents.

For one birthday, I surprised my daughter, taking her and a bunch of her friends to an alpaca farm.

There was where the minivan took us, but also the getting there.

With my kids we listened to audiobooks: Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, Anne of Green Gables, Peter and the Starcatchers, the exquisite novels of Clare Vanderpool.

We were listening to one book and suddenly my son, who I thought might be getting too cool for “kids books” exclaimed, “This book is SOOO good.”

I took my son to my brother’s to watch (for his first time) Return of the Jedi on my brother’s big screen. We listened to Harry Potter all the way up and discussed archetypes and parallels between Harry Potter and Star Wars.

We carpooled with another family and were closely involved with one another’s lives. On morning and afternoon carpool the kids didn’t like my books or the news and I didn’t like their music. So I went through a country phase and my daughter and her best friend were singing Johnny Cash to themselves. A rarity at a Jewish Day School.

We also listened to feeds of age appropriate stand-up in the minivan. Jim Gaffigan, Brian Regan, Jerry Seinfeld, and many others. With my own limited background, I gave some pointers about how bits worked. We had endless carpool shticks. The bossy GPS, the bad kid (one of my son’s friends) who was responsible for everything wrong, and Monk-watch. The last because my kids went to a camp next to a Buddhist monastery, so seeing figures clad in saffron robes was no rarity but still a source of wonder.

As the least gainfully employed of the parents in our circle, I often drove kids to practices and events. I got to know their friends. More than a few of my son’s friends have great memories of my driving them home from late bar mitzvah parties, joking around. I was probably the least successful parent professionally, but the most notable personality.

I taught my kids to drive. I started them in the minivan, figuring that if they could manage this big vehicle, our smaller car would be no problem. One of my proudest life achievements was teaching my kids to drive with a minimum of yelling. 

The minivan’s service didn’t end when carpool did. It became my son’s car while he was in college. Because of it, he became the team driver for The Space Bastards, the University of Maryland’s ultimate frisbee team. It also made the long-distance relationship with his wonderful girlfriend work!

In his first real job, my son became the aide-de-camp to a candidate for Congress. The minivan became the official campaign vehicle. A “donation” I was happy to make!

My minivan—up in lights. My little contribution to democracy!

The furniture of your childhood home becomes the landscape of youthful memories. The minivan too was furniture, even bigger than the couch or dining room table. Selling it means their childhood is done. That set of memories is formed.

But, fatherhood doesn’t end. Nor would I want it to. But now, I’m not the driver of my kids’ lives. I can relax, sit in the backseat, and enjoy the ride.