“You do realize your car smells, right?” my sister asked me after climbing into my passenger seat.
Unfortunately I did, but the offending odor was hard to pinpoint because there were so many contributors. It was a savory mixture of gymnastics clothes, dirty socks, Keen sandals and gum. This was after I had done a quick clean up.
“And why is there a two-person tent?” my sister pointed to a pup tent wedged beneath my daughter’s booster seat.
“Um … I’m not sure where that came from, but I think it’s Boy Scout related.” I glanced down and saw a metal file and work gloves stashed next to it. What-the-what! How did those get there? My son got his Totin’ Chip a while ago. I hoped there wasn’t an axe back there too.
When I was a little girl being carpooled from one activity to another, I remember being really judgy about mothers who let their minivans become disgusting. Now it was 30 years later, and I was that mom. The one with the gross car.
The thing is, it’s not like I try to let my SUV become a cesspool on purpose. I take it to the carwash every three weeks. I feed quarters to the machine for 10 minutes of vacuuming. But the three-week cleaning schedule is failing me. I should be going every week, or maybe even every few days. How would I make time for that — and, would I want to?
“Look,” I told my sister. “What you don’t understand is that having a junked-up car can be a mother’s secret weapon.” Then I told her the story of the ketchup packet.
A few weeks ago the kids and I were at a fast food joint grabbing a snack before my son’s guitar lesson. My daughter accidentally burst open a ketchup packet and it erupted all over her like a volcano. There was gooey, red sickness in her hair, on her shirt and straight down her pants.
“I wanna go home right now!” she sobbed. I was more concerned about eating the cost of a missed music lesson.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” I grabbed my keys. “We’ll find you a new outfit in the car.” Five minutes later she was dressed in shorts meant for the Goodwill, a zipped up hoodie that had been floating around the front seat, and a fresh new headband. I washed her hair in the bathroom sink and we were ready to roll.
Try doing that with a showroom model.
“You see?” I explained to my sister when I finished my ketchup story. I tapped on the steering wheel for emphasis. “It’s like my car is a Swiss Army Knife.”
“I don’t know about that, Jenny,” she said. “Pocket knives don’t smell.”
Jennifer Bardsley is an Edmonds mom of two, and author of the book “Genesis Girl.” Find her online on Instagram @the_ya_gal, Twitter @jennbardsley or on Facebook as “The YA Gal.”
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