Love Of Car
Sarah heard us talking about the car tonight at dinner; we were discussing which of us should be driving it while it's in its current fragile state, so that we can tell the adjusters which office parking lot to go to to look at it.
"No!" she cried, on hearing the phrase "look at the car." "Don't sell Red Car! I love Red Car!" [We are so imaginative about naming our cars: we have Red Car and White Car.]
I explained to her about the accident, and about how it would cost more to fix Red Car than to buy another one, and a little about insurance and how it works, and about how we hadn't wanted this, and it wasn't our fault, it was the truck driver's fault, but that maybe now we would have some money to buy a van.
"Noooo! I don't want a van! I hate vans! Don't sell Red Car! I don't want you to sell Red Car!" She burst into tears, real huge heaving sobs, as if, I don't know, as if someone was dying, or candy had been banned forever and replaced by brown rice. Then she ran into her room and closed the door and said she wanted to be alone.
She sobbed deeply for, I swear, 15 minutes, which is a long time. We finally got her calmed down with many hugs, and a reminder that she's going to be getting a new [pink!] booster seat for White Car soon. She did perk up when she realized that we weren't getting rid of everything in Red Car, that we'd be keeping all the cassette tapes and toys that have piled up in there. "Even the garbage!" RW said, and Sarah laughed, a little hysterically, and repeated it to me: "Even the garbage! That's funny, Mommy, right? Even the garbage!"
She was like this, or even worse, two years ago, when we sold the old green Volvo to buy White Car. For months afterwards, she would point out green Volvos on the street and say wistfully, "That looks like Green Car! I miss Green Car."
My family never even had a car until I was five; all this car-love is mystifying to me. I guess it's just part of the Great Circle of Life. Or something.