When my daughter was three, I bought a new car to take advantage of safety features, better gas mileage, and integrated GPS. I vowed to keep it clean and not become one of “those parents” with crumbs on the carpet and trash everywhere. Not so many years later, I have come to the conclusion that I have failed at car cleanliness but succeeded at parenthood preparedness.
In the toddler years, there were many times of her running around in a diaper pantless and of me walking around with shirt stains varying in repulsive colors and scents before I realized my car needed to carry backup supplies. Routinely, I tried to make sure there was an extra diaper and baby wipes in the car. Once she was solidly potty-trained, I still kept a complete change of clothes for my daughter in my car. As expected with kids, food spills were common, and given where we live, ending up at the beach is always possible and never ends in a dry kid. In fact, I still have a T-shirt, that she doesn’t really like, tucked away in my car because I want to be ready, even though I am admonished that she doesn’t need it anymore because she is not a little kid. She would not admit it, but it has come in handy. I also have extra T-shirts for myself and for my wife after my daughter’s double whammy incident, from both ends, in 2016. Now, they remain in case there is transfer from her painted art project to us or something else. These preparations have saved more than one outing.
The most malnourished, underfed child in the world often rides in the backseat. The twenty minutes, at most, from school to home without some food are a form of torture, meriting cries and whines for the tyrant behind the wheel. Hungry wails can only be silenced by car snacks—small, portable, and contained (or so I thought). As a result, chunks and crumbs have become embedded in the nooks and crannies of car seats and booster seats of the recent past and now the interior car edges themselves. Home vacuum cleaners, and even those at the car wash, are no match for the power of a child’s shoe stepping on a Goldfish cracker in exiting the car. I know that I should attend to the crummy, crumby situation right away, but often, I don’t notice (or don’t want to notice) how bad the back seat has become. I have to accept that these remnants of family life have become one with the car (it is my Zen attitude).
Now, the commute times before after-school and weekend activities become a balance of providing enough snack calories to focusing on the lesson or event without providing too much food to spoil the next meal. To this day, you are likely to find a stray granola bar, maybe squished flat, in the pockets of my car, still enjoyed by a kid, if needed.
The excavation process of cleaning my car becomes a series of mysteries vacillating between “What is that?” and “Why would you do that?” It is not uncommon to find a piece of food semi-wrapped in a corner of a worksheet, used tissues tucked in the door handle and door pockets rather than the trash can, a shell, one partially filled water bottle, hair clips or hair bands (parents of daughters, you know), dried slime in an unexpected container, and at least one stray pencil. Inevitably, there is also sand in the trunk area that, when brushed, just seems to multiply. I try not to get too mad and sigh a lot in the process, but know that these are signs of an active family life.
Given busy schedules and commutes, the car becomes concentrated periods of family time. Events of the day and music might be shared, as well as snacks and the occasional drive-through meal. Because of this time together, there are remnants in the form of crumbs, wrappers, and all the rest. I know I could spend my time cleaning my car on a regular basis, but there are better things to do. So, now I call on all parents to take pride in your dirty, messy car as evidence of your engaged parenthood.
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