One Good Honda Deserves Another

Today I tearfully write to inform you that I have traded in my beloved 2003 Honda Element for a 2006 Honda Pilot. A Mom car.

I have been an Element owner since the beginning. And if the Element had a past life, probably then, too. Frankly, I consider it more of a love affair than car ownership. Because as it turns out, I had an Element much a teeny bit longer than I’ve had a husband. And while it never cooked for me or rubbed my pregnant feet, it took darn good care of me all the same. So I am not feeling the least bit ridiculous for being so broken-up about its loss. And besides, I can always blame it on the third-trimester hormones.

In making this trade, I realize that I will probably continue to catch some flack for supporting a foreign auto maker. But in my defense, I have owned a couple American cars in the recent past and the horrors I faced in the service department scared me a little more than my steely exterior likes to admit. Also, I’d like to point out that my Honda dealer was a living-breathing American man, with an equally living-breathing American family. And I feel OK about putting dinner on their table tonight. Even though he did call in sick today (St. Paddy’s Day hangover was the rumor at the dealership). See how American he is??

So without further ado, I introduce you to my new beast of burden. Its handy Mom Features include:

*A little fish-eye mirror. So I can gaze lovingly at my children in the back seat all day long. (This is handy since I do this now, only rubber-necked).
*Eight. Count them. EIGHT seats! You know, just in case this baby turns out to be sextuplets.
*A middle row that moves up. So I can gaze at my sextuplets in HD.
*Side steps. So we can all climb in and out WITHOUT having a hernia.
*Heated seats. To just melt my stresses away. Or, whip up a grilled cheese sandwich in a pinch.
*A six-disc changer. So now it can be Toddler-Time, all the time!
*Doors that open like normal doors. Not like doors that trap you, your child, and his stroller into the tiny confines of a parking space, left to work out complex Houdini-like strategies on how to escape before the mall actually closes.

So I guess the Pilot will do just fine. But please, when you see me, don’t make any comments about how less rugged I’m looking these days. Because that’s just beating a dead horse. And I am NOT above calling animal cruelty on you.
Peace out,
Mom