A Trunk Full of Memories by Andrea Santo Felcone

We hadn’t purchased a new car in 15 years. I know that may sound crazy to you, but we like to watch things disintegrate, so that was the amount of time it took for our old car to do just that. Our old car had been a good car—reliable and functional—but not much more. In the end, the car had begun to make an odd noise, which, of course, was impossible to reproduce for our mechanic. I had become so tense driving (Post Traumatic “Saturn” Disorder) that buying a new car had taken on a sense of urgency.

The anticipated arrival of our new “baby” was exciting. A few weeks into owning our new car, I decided she felt like a “Lola” as opposed to the “Otis” we’d just traded in. Lola was sleek, sexy, (evidenced by her glittery shimmer in the sun), as well as reliable, and you knew just by looking at her that “whatever Lola wanted, Lola was about to get.” Lola had already gotten several car washes, Sirius XM Radio, a personal duster for her interior. (Otis was lucky if he had gotten a full tank of gas).

Sure, I was heady with the intoxication of “new car smell,” but I couldn’t ignore the reality: I had to go through the bag of items we had accumulated from cleaning out Otis. Clearing Otis of his contents (to prepare him for “trade-in”) was like unearthing a family time capsule. Otis was around for a significant time in my life—my life as a new mom. He was my first “family car”—the first ride each of our then babies took from the hospital to our home. Deep within the recesses of Otis’s trunk, I discovered several hidden precious gems. Oh, there’s the baby shoe from when my firstborn learned to walk, next to the spare tire. A tattered children’s book “Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?” wedged into the corner. The look on Brown Bear’s shell-shocked face revealed he had seen quite a lot: the requisite dried Cheerios, petrified baby wipes, the half-chewed lid of a sippy cup smelling faintly of spoiled milk–all treasures from the time our firstborn was a baby.

You see, my eldest son, my firstborn “baby” has just turned 13. A teenager is living among us. Although you’d hardly know it, for the occasional “grunts”; his presence is barely a whisper. Strange things have started to sprout from his head. His pediatrician concludes these outgrowths are normal–just an Xbox headset. So, yes, the sentimental part of me is sad that Otis is no longer–the part that recalls driving my firstborn to his playdates, to Mommy and Me yoga, to our time in the library/park/bagel shop. Who could forget the time Otis and I got completely lost after a doctor’s appointment, with my firstborn (as a toddler) crying out, “Mama, where’s our happy home?” (I had no clue). Going through the “Otis bag,” I felt the same sad pang I get when cleaning out the clothes my children have outgrown. It’s a reminder of the passage of time. The childhood milestones you cherished that you can’t relive (except in your mind’s eye).

However … on the plus side, the advances they have made in car technology in the last 15 years were beginning to soften the blow. We love everything about Lola: the soft–yet solid–sound her doors make when they close. (The sound a spaceship should make when its hatch closes—but probably doesn’t). Her windshield wiper fluid flows easily and evenly. Otis had been “a dribbler” in later years, and toward the very end, a healthy portion of his wiper fluid would dribble inside the car, down your left leg. (A lesson learned the hard way.) You don’t even have to hold her trunk open with one arm as you try (in vain) with the other to unload groceries. Lola handles all of that. Lola even came equipped with a back-up camera. Once you adjust to a back-up camera, you can never go back (LITERALLY, YOU CAN NEVER GO BACK–you are never going to remember how to back up without one). And that brings a new revelation: You really can’t go back, so you might as well enjoy going forward.

Recently, I stumbled upon a question that led to an extended conversation with my teenager. Once I realized this, I froze up, like a bomb squad technician trying to figure out which wire to keep and which to cut, what will keep the conversation flowing, what not to say to get the whole thing to blow up in my face. I was reminded of his dry sense of humor, his deep curiosity and matching intellect. He’s good company (when he lets on). And although I’m the very last person to ever rush his growing up, I look forward to sharing a friendship as well as our parent-child bond.

We had to trade Otis in–there was no moving forward otherwise. (Literally, the bottom was going to fall out of that thing). And, I know in order to move forward, I have to accept that I’m the mother of a teenager. Lola may very well be the first car my son learns to drive. (O.K., I’m not at all O.K. with that–you know that, right?) However, something happened that has made this a little easier. We noticed a few “dings” in Lola’s door—the kind you get when someone carelessly whacks into your car. I’d been stewing about these “dings” for weeks. Otis didn’t have any “dings” (although his rooftop was completely pitted). Upon trade in, the dealer had asked if we had driven through various hail storms. Actually, a neighbor’s tree pelts chestnuts and poor Otis was parked underneath. You wouldn’t expect sitting in a driveway could cause this much damage, but for Otis the driveway had been his Gettysburg and the chestnut dents—his battle scars.

Now Lola shared these imperfections. I was upset, until I realized: Lola’s “dings” are a really nice reminder of Otis. And Otis is a lovely reminder of the time when my teenager was my little baby. And while I will never fully “trade in” my memories of my son’s earliest years, I’m willing to give “parenting a teenager”—a test drive.