Dings and Things

When the kids were born I had to trade in my sporty SUV for a mini-van. A white one. I love my wife... and I love my kids... no problem.

The van (affectionately dubbed the "Brat-mobile") is driven primarily by my wife, Cristy. She had not driven such a large vehicle previously and she's doing a bang up job. Truly... I mean it! The van is really banged up.

She turned right into the side of another car while I was out of town. She backed out of the driveway into her Mother's car. She has hit other things she never noticed or refuses to identify. Each of the van's 4 corners bear evidence of abuse; long black scratches etched on white like war paint streaked on a weathered warrior's face.

Scars give the Brat-mobile character. In seas of white mini-vans at amusement parks, zoos, and little-league games we rarely mistake another for our own. When wandering down isles of van after van after van at the end of an exhausting family adventure, with three wiped-out kids in tow, the sight of our banged up back bumper peeking out past the Caravan next to it is enough to make a grown man cry.

The scratches don't matter. Flawless appearance isn't worth much... it's what's inside [the van] that counts. We try to convey meaningful lessons to our kids; don't judge a book by its cover, be kind whenever possible, leave a note on the other car's window, and don't throw apple sauce at your sister. But most importantly... when your bumpers look like ours do it's a LOT easier to merge in traffic.