One Testy Test Drive

Truth in advertising? I think not.  The big smiles are because they're getting paid to sit in this photo, not because the Odyssey is so incredibly comfy for seven individuals.  Folks, we are missing a whole wall of the car here.  Otherwise everyone pictured would be a whiny claustrophobic mess. 

HOLD UP THERE!  If you haven't read the original post on our family's new-car standoff, and you aren't opposed to a little humor related to a completely First World Problem, then head over here for the back story.

For my mother and the rest of you reading this blog, yesterday was a big day in our familia grande.  I reluctantly agreed to test drive a 2014 Honda Odyssey.  Even though the Car Petition currently has 8 signatures under Yukon XL and only two under Odyssey (the affordability factor won over my numbers kid), David coerced me into heading over to the car dealership to take a ride around, knowing good and well that any car with a mere 10 miles on the odometer and fresh, crumb-free, leather-scented seats would hypnotize me into submission.

Poor hubby. He was waaaaay off base on this, because I insisted on bringing every child we had (I wanted to bring our black lab but wasn't sure Proctor Honda was that open-minded), the enormous and somewhat crusty Britax Roundabout, my ginormous diaper bag, and I actually had plans on unloading the team's baseball equipment from my car to see how my whole show would fit until I saw that the salesman actually wasn't a shark like I was expecting, but the gentle, extremely young son of Peruvian immigrants. Really he was: he tried to reassure me that he could handle a test drive with my crew because his mom grew up in Peru with seven siblings.

This fact was irrelevant because back in Peru they don't have this strange American custom called Field Day.  In retrospect, bringing my children for a test drive at 3:30pm just after the conclusion of a hot and sweaty Field Day was either a terrific idea (we looked frayed around the edges enough to seem like we needed a great deal on the car) or the worst strategy possible (we looked like hobos without a car budget, possibly just wasting their time.)

Sure enough, my offspring were grubby, exhausted, and stinky from tip to toe in their ratty athletic clothes, and my kind sales rep did a double-check and made sure to look at the zip code on my copied license before letting us within 10 feet of the vehicle.  It dawned on me that he may or may not have caught a glimpse earlier of one (or two) of my kids removing the delicate blue gazing ball from the little garden area next to the entrance and chasing each other with it like wild banshees.  As we started to load up, this young fella, who confessed he primarily handled Internet sales inquiries and not test drives, actually made a joke about me making off with the car if he didn't hop in to escort me.

I was not amused.

In keeping with his initial impressions, however, Anne Mason somehow tried to steal aboard this pristine vehicle with a passel of small twigs she had collected while we waited outside for him to bring the car around.  I reprimanded her under my breath and she pretended to throw them back into the grass only to slide them into the large pocket of her dirt-streaked white skort.  After more quiet scolding and piercing angry-mom eyes, she eventually climbed into the brand-spankin-new car stickless and with a ticked look.

We were off.

Immediately Reid started whining from his squished-in spot in the back that he couldn't see because of all the sales papers stuck to the window. The shout I'M TEARING THESE PAPERS DOWN, MOM! made the salesman flinch and, looking back, he noted that my dear precocious son was seatbeltless.  After more maternal threats and recriminations from the front seat, everyone was duly secured as we pulled out on one of the busiest streets in our town.  I wobbled in the lane as the three kids jostled in the third row, whispering loudly in rotation: "I hate this car! You're touching me--move over!  I want to go home!  I need to go to the bathroom BAD!"  That's when I leaned over conversationally to the tense Peruvian and asked if he knew how his mom and her seven siblings got around town in their youth.  He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment and admitted he had no idea.

I put forth the witty suggestion, as the situation intensified on the back row and rush hour traffic kicked in, that it most definitely could not have been in a Honda Odyssey.

Not sixty seconds later, it became strangely quiet in the new car.  Nap time hit like a ton of bricks in that ten minute spin around the block, and I was finally able to converse in a normal tone and ask intelligent questions for the duration of the ride.  I even remember to ask if the in-car vac could handle Whataburger cream gravy, to which he looked at me strangely and shrugged.

Do they look comfortable to you?  At least we'd have enough cupholders.

These people will only get bigger.

Although I tried to play the smart consumer for the rest of the ride, I could tell that the damage was done when he hopped out upon our return, shook my hand, and--for the first time in the history of car sales--backed inside without even taking my phone number. 

On the long ride home, all present agreed without hesitation that the old Sequoia would be a roomier--if not nearly as clean or reliable--alternative to the tricked-out new Odyssey.  There is just no substitute in the realm of fancy car features for personal space.  

Yet as the complaining kid unsurprisingly peed in their pants before I could unlock the front door, I realized an in-car potty might actually come in close second.