The Minivan Years Read online

  Copyright © 2008 by Olivia Bruner

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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  Hachette Book Group USA

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  New York, NY 10017

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  Center Street is a division of Hachette Book Group USA, Inc. The Center Street name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group USA, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: January 2008

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN: 978-159995116-4

  Contents

  ALSO BY OLIVIA BRUNER

  Dedication

  INTRODUCTION: Welcome to the Minivan Zone

  CHAPTER 1: Mini-Mishaps

  CHAPTER 2: Mini-Morsels

  CHAPTER 3: Mini-Prayers

  CHAPTER 4: Mini-Stress

  CHAPTER 5: Mini-Joys

  CHAPTER 6: Mini-Budgets

  CHAPTER 7: Mini-Hurts

  CHAPTER 8: Mini-Sleeps

  CHAPTER 9: Mini-Faith

  CHAPTER 10: Mini-Choices

  CHAPTER 11: Mini-Charms

  CHAPTER 12: Mini-Sins

  CHAPTER 13: Mini-Enemies

  CHAPTER 14: Mini-Jurisdictions

  CHAPTER 15: Mini-Scholars

  CHAPTER 16: Mini-Heroics

  CHAPTER 17: Mini-Saints

  CHAPTER 18: Mini-Perfections

  CHAPTER 19: Mini-Losses

  Conclusion

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY OLIVIA BRUNER

  (AND COAUTHORED WITH KURT BRUNER)

  Playstation Nation

  The Family Compass

  To Kyle, Shaun, Troy, and Nicole.

  Thanks for being the “high” in

  so many of my days.

  Mom

  INTRODUCTION

  Welcome to the Minivan Zone

  Not long ago I crossed a line that shoved me into a whole new dimension of motherhood: Kurt and I brought home baby number four. Adding a little princess to our assortment of budding boys meant that I finally had a child with whom I could enjoy tea parties, baby dolls, and frilly dresses. But it also meant saying good-bye to my standard automobile. Cars legally seat five, not six. And so, no matter how young, glamorous, or hip I may want to appear, I am fated to dwell in a place known as the Minivan Zone.

  During college I drove a cute, yellow VW bug. Now, rear seat headphone jacks and Scotchgard are essential equipment, sporty-looking exteriors a distant fantasy.

  When I was a sixth grade teacher, I wore stylish outfits to class every day. As a minivan mom, I sometimes fall into bed at night wearing the same unflattering sweats I threw on while running out the door in the morning.

  As newlyweds, my husband and I enjoyed frequent candlelit dinners and passionate getaways. During the minivan years, we consider any restaurant without ketchup packets fine dining—and any bed without a child trying to wedge between us an opportunity for romantic bliss.

  Whatever happened to those exhausting college years that now seem like a walk in the park, or the days when I could afford to dislike macaroni and cheese and to listen to classical music in the car instead of a Jamaican crab singing “Under the Sea” and “Kiss Da Girl”? In short, they are gone forever. And I couldn’t be more grateful.

  Are You in the Minivan Zone?

  Whether you have four children or find yourself adjusting to your first, you know that motherhood is a lot of work. Regardless of your car size or number of children, you are in the minivan zone if

  • There is at least one car seat in your vehicle—probably filled with pacifiers, cracker crumbs, smashed French fries, or M&M’s.

  • You spend an enormous amount of time shuttling a child among at least three extracurricular activities—including but not limited to soccer, piano lessons, and Scouts.

  • Snack wrappers and Sunday school take-home papers litter the floor of your automobile.

  • The best part of your day is when your youngest finally falls asleep.

  • The worst part of your day is when an older sibling yells out “Mommy, come wipe me!”—waking your youngest.

  • You’ve seen every animated feature released during the past year but can’t recall finishing a single book.

  It is the season when your needs go unmet and dreams seem unfulfilled. There are days of endless errands, spills, and bottles of pink antibiotic liquid. Those past this phase of motherhood remind us during the least believable moments that these are the times you will someday treasure as the best days of your life.

  I suppose they’re right. But why don’t they seem like it? Can’t we enjoy the minivan years while in them—or are we doomed to grit our teeth through what are allegedly our happiest days?

  To avoid falling into that trap, I have decided to celebrate the hectic joys of motherhood today rather than wait until they are mere memories. When I am older and my children have left the nest, I want to honestly say that I enjoyed rather than endured the glory days of mommyhood. This book is my invitation for you to do likewise.

  Easier Said . . .

  It is much easier to say that I want to celebrate these days than actually do so. Case in point—this morning. I woke up late due to an inconsiderate alarm clock. Rushing to get the three boys fed and off to school, I remembered that Troy went to the principal’s office yesterday because he wouldn’t stop crying over scoring less than 100 percent on a spelling quiz. He needed to compose an apology note to his first grade teacher. While I was helping him with his fifth draft, I realized Nicole needed to wear her prettiest dress for “Mom’s Morning Out” picture day. So I quickly dressed and primped her while proofing Troy’s apology.

  After starting the van, I went back in the house and caught Shaun watching cartoons instead of filling up his backpack—messing up the critical sequence of events needed to make it to school and my “morning out” on time. I asked my husband to watch Nicole so that I could rush the boys off to class before opening bell. When I returned, I discovered that Kurt, at Nicole’s request, had removed her pretty winter dress and replaced it with a chocolate-stained summer outfit.

  Then a vision of Nicole’s teacher flooded my memory. “Pictures will be taken first thing,” she had warned, “so everyone must be on time.” We weren’t.

  Since today was my turn to help Shaun’s teacher grade papers, I rushed home to change clothes. Days earlier my thoughtful husband had encouraged me to buy a cute blouse, probably because he is tired of the frumpy sweat-top look. I must admit, it felt good to put on something stylish for the classroom as in days of yore. That is, until I glanced in the mirror while fixing my hair to discover three stains down the front. “How did those get there?” I asked the glass with an incensed frown.

  I suppose you laugh or you cry. No, it isn’t easy or natural to celebrate these days. But, to be honest, I fear the alternative. Far too often we become trapped in a cycle in which frustration overwhelms happiness, anger eclipses gratitude, and resentment gradually crushes our capacity for joy. So, in the end, choosing to enjoy the minivan years may be the simpler path.

  Life-giving Joy

  We’ve all heard of the oft-quoted African American preacher who explained his reluctance to upset his wife with the line, “If Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy!”

  Funny, but also true. My mood sets the tone in our home, for better or worse. And so does yours. When we are down in the dumps, we rob our husbands and children of the happy home they deserve. Our pity parties, lost tempers, and sulky discontent don’t just dr
ain the life out of ourselves. They set the tone for everyone under our roof.

  I suppose that is why the Scriptures warn prospective husbands against women who make such attitudes a habit.

  Better to live on a corner of the roof than share a house with a quarrelsome wife.

  PROVERBS 21:9, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION (NIV)

  None of us want our husbands or kids tiptoeing around the house to avoid upsetting “Momma.” Show me a woman who has learned to celebrate the hectic joys of motherhood, and I’ll show you a happy home. By the same token, a woman who resents being a mommy is sowing the seeds of misery—for herself and her family.

  I consider choosing happiness a moral obligation. After all, every mom has the power to be a life giver or a joy killer. I, for one, want to choose life for my family!

  I invite you to join me in that pursuit as we learn together how to enjoy the sometimes hectic, sometimes exhausting blessings of living in the minivan zone. May the stories I share remind you that you are not alone and prompt the kind of smile and perspective that can inspire you to become the life-giving mother your family needs!

  CHAPTER 1

  Mini-Mishaps

  ENDURING EMBARRASSING TIMES

  I tell this story under one condition: You must promise not to report me to the child protection division of social services. It ranks among my most embarrassing moments, not to mention disqualifying me from ever writing a book on motherhood.

  I would only be gone for about 210 seconds. Less than four minutes. Certainly Shaun could be trusted to watch Nicole that long.

  “Shaun, you need to sit here next to the bath while I run Troy over to Kent’s house.” He appeared to be listening.

  Nicole was then two and a half—big enough to play in a bubble bath with little risk. Kent’s house was one and a half blocks away—close enough to zip there and back before anything could happen. Shaun was then ten and a half—old enough to take on such an assignment.

  “Do you understand me, Shaun?” His grunt and nod told me I would be able to get Troy to his destination on time. If I took the time to get Nicole out of the bath, he would be late for soccer practice—an unpardonable parental sin.

  Looking back, I realize I should have heeded that twinge of anxiety in my stomach when Shaun looked more interested in his book than my instructions. In the past, his older brother, Kyle, had taken all the keep-an-eye-on jobs. With Kyle gone, however, I had to rely on the second string.

  I backed the van out of the driveway, drove the one thousand feet to Kent’s house, walked Troy to Kent’s door to ensure a clean handoff to Kent’s mom, then zipped back home before anything could happen. Anything, that is, except what happened.

  Admittedly, my zip ended up taking more than 210 seconds. Kent’s mom is, like me, a chatty gal, and I’ve never been good at cutting off a conversation, for fear of being rude. But in this instance, I had a daughter to save from a potentially negligent son. We talked for two minutes.

  As I whipped my van around the corner and approached my driveway, the world began moving in slow motion.

  Passing my next-door neighbor’s house, I caught a glimpse of what I could swear looked like a two-and-a-half-year-old girl standing on the front porch of Steve and Cindy Franklin’s house wearing nothing but bubbles. Not good.

  I parked the van and ran over to retrieve Nicole before anyone noticed, only to observe the shadow of an adult standing in Steve and Cindy’s doorway. Oh please, God, let it be Cindy!

  The next thing I remember was explaining to Steve, not Cindy, that “I instructed Shaun to keep an eye on Nicole in the bath while I zipped around the corner to take Troy . . .” You get the picture. I might even have fudged the numbers a bit, assuring Steve I had been gone only 210 seconds. As if anything I said would have wiped that Sure, lady, I believe you! look off his justifiably condemning face.

  Steve informed me that Nicole had rung his doorbell and asked him whether her mommy was at their house because she couldn’t find her at ours.

  I was so angry while carrying Nicole home. At first it was aimed at my son. “How could he be so irresponsible as to walk away from the bath while a two-and-a-half-year-old girl played with her bubbles?” Then I pointed it at myself. “How could I be so stupid as to drive away from the house when a ten-year-old boy with his nose in a book grunted that he would watch my two-year-old sitting in her bubble bath?”

  Every mom walking the planet has done something she regrets. Not all our mistakes can be laughed off. Something many of us know too well.

  One of my close friends, Lee, pulled her car out of the garage and ran over her son Jack’s scooter. A busy mother of four, she had little time to check behind the vehicle for neglected toys. She stopped the car as soon as she felt its rear end lift and drop. Wondering what she had run over, Lee pulled forward—rolling the rear tire back over the scooter in the process.

  As she opened the car door to assess the damage, her worst nightmare came true. Jack, her three-year-old boy, had been riding the scooter. There he was, lying next to the rear van tire that had twice rolled over his tiny frame. Hysterically screaming her precious child’s name, she slid Jack out from under the car.

  I can’t begin to imagine what the next several hours must have been like for Lee. A neighbor who saw what had happened called 911. Lee held her breath in hopes that the paramedics would arrive quickly; every second felt like an eternity to her. She may have killed their son.

  The ambulance ride to the hospital was a blur. At the emergency room, doctors feverishly examined and x-rayed Jack’s body. Friends gathered outside the emergency room as the word spread that Lee had run over Jack. Finally, everyone felt an avalanche of relief and thankfulness when the announcement was made that Jack would be fine. You see, the metal scooter that had caused the mishap also saved his life by absorbing the full weight of the car. Despite a badly bruised leg and a pretty fat lip, none of Jack’s internal organs had been crushed or bones broken—even though there was a tire track halfway up his side. After being kept overnight for observation Jack walked out of the hospital the next day, went home, and got on his bike.

  Even though I was mortified at the time of Nicole’s bubble-bath incident, realizing something awful could have happened, I can now laugh it off. I don’t recall Lee ever laughing over the scooter incident. Celebrating God’s intervention? Yes. Enjoying the child she might have lost? Certainly. But laughing? Never. (Although Jack himself later teased her about the incident by asking, “Mommy, do you remember when you killed me?”)

  Every parent has done something he or she regrets. Others regret not doing something they might have.

  What parent isn’t haunted by the phrase “if only!”—the two words that inflict a daily dose of torturous regret on millions of parents.

  We regret yelling over a little bit of spilled milk or messy bedrooms.

  We regret throwing our own temper tantrums when we should have remained calm enough to apply the kind of loving, firm, balanced discipline Dr. Dobson and Dr. Phil suggest.

  We regret letting them eat too many sweets, watch too much television, go to bed after nine, and play with the unruly kids down the street.

  In short, we regret being imperfect parents.

  That’s why I’m so glad to know that mishaps occur even with the world’s only perfect parent, God Almighty. Of course, it wouldn’t be accurate to call them “mishaps” with God, since He doesn’t technically mis or hap. But bad things do happen to God’s children. And while He may not be the cause of them, He certainly doesn’t prevent them either.

  Do you recall the story of the prodigal son? The spoiled ingrate left the family farm with a wad of cash and a negative attitude. Not exactly a parent’s dream. Sure, he eventually came home, having learned in the school of hard knocks. But not before putting his father through no small turmoil. Why didn’t the father refuse to give his son the wad of cash and insist he remain in the protective sanctuary of their home? After all, good parents protect t
heir child from mishaps—even if self- imposed. Don’t they?

  Of course, in the story of the prodigal son, the father represents God Himself. Like the prodigal’s father, God does not try to prevent His children from making foolish choices. He grants them the freedom to decide their own course in life, even when it means squandering their entire future.

  So, if a perfect parent like God encounters mishaps, I suppose you and I are in good company. More than that, I think mishaps—even when they are more than mini—serve a redemptive purpose. They push us into a place of rest we would never willingly go. The only place we can go for ultimate assurance that our children are in good hands. Not ours, His.

  Every mother needs to come to the place of recognizing that her children are not, in fact, her children. They are God’s. Sure, we have the privilege of bearing them, feeding them, comforting them, teaching them, and eventually releasing them. But we do not own them. Our overprotective impulse, while perfectly natural, is profoundly misguided. I believe God wired moms to keep kids safe so that we would nurture them toward life, not worry ourselves to death.

  The apostle Paul gave valuable perspective to moms when he wrote the following.

  And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. . . . For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

  ROMANS 8:28, 38–39, NIV

  So when (not if) mishaps occur, we can rest in the knowledge that God uses all things—even imperfect moms—to accomplish His purposes in the lives of our children. Correction—His children.

  * * *

  Mini-Tip

  MISHAP OFFERING

  Create a list of your many motherhood mishaps from the past year. Then spend time praying over each one, asking God to forgive those that need forgiveness and use for good those that were unintentional or part of the hectic realities of life. God can redeem all things and use them in the lives of our children for good. Let God use your mishaps for a greater purpose, as He sees fit in your family.