I had no idea just how “car-identified” I was until last weekend.

I knew I had car issues. I knew that it was giving me a pain in my ego to sell my beloved 1988 Jeep Grand Wagoneer. And that it was with mixed feelings that I finally became a mini-van mama.

It was the third child (and State Department of Environmental Quality Standards) that pushed us over the edge. While the Jeep is spacious, powerful and stylish in a Ward and June way that makes grown men stare and teenage boys green with envy, it’s nearing the end of its life environmentally. But even if it could pass emissions tests by the truckload and the price of filling the tank didn’t require a line of credit, it was time for a vehicle that could easily fit in three kids, a dog the size of a small horse and all the gear they seem to require.

Our good friends have all long ago made the switch from power-mad SUV to soccer mom status symbol. They have watched us driving our gas hog, not giving in to the siren call of seven seats, easy open back and extra storage, knowing we would eventually cave, becoming yet another mini-van on the road with a rainbow strip and an HRC sticker.

But how I loved driving the Jeep. In it I felt powerful, and invulnerable, and safe. All the accumulated fear I’ve felt as a woman disappeared when I climbed in. I would slip on my sunglasses, hang my arm out the window, and blast Melissa Etheridge as I roared down the road to pick up the kids. For a brief moment not the mother of three, fast-approaching 40. I was 17, fearless, and forgot the challenges life offers on a daily basis; President Bush’s frightening foreign policy, the threat of lay-offs, our aging parents, bullies at school, my expanding waistline.

A year and a half ago, when I was rushing to my mother in the hospital, seven months pregnant and sick as dog, it was a combination of driving the Jeep, blasting sexist rock and dredging up memories of my misspent youth that got me through the crisis.

I know I’m not alone regarding car issues. There were two distinct reactions when I first drove our new van to our daughter’s school. Half of the moms we know were excited when they noticed, asking to see the new features – the in-floor cargo space, the optional eighth seat. The other half immediately disavowed interest, firmly stating their own unwillingness to become mini-van mamas. One mother went so far as to joke about our “mobile living room” and suggest I should park it around the block so “no one would know.”

Ouch.

It gets worse. Just when I’d finally adjusted to the van, we drove to the wife’s relatives this weekend. They are farm people; kindly, fun-loving and embracing, though they feel sorry for us city folk, knowing our kids are missing out on the joys of dirt and cows and unsupervised outdoor play. While we were visiting, an aunt took us to visit “the girls”, a lesbian couple who live down the road. They let the kids ride a horse and pet a foal, gave us a tour of the livestock and showed us the inside of their mammoth horse trailer. When we were getting ready to leave, one of “the girls” leaned in the window of our van to check out the bells and whistles (she was vehicularly-identified herself). I told her we were selling our Jeep, something I was sure she’d sympathize with. She looked me up and down, and said, “You look more like the Subaru type to me.”

I was struck dumb, my ego flat as a pancake. The wife leaned over and told her, “Great, now she’ll be impossible to live with.”

I’ll get over it, eventually. Not that there’s anything wrong with a Subaru – they’re safe, reliable, outdoorsy and cost more than we could afford. But, Oh God, there was the proof that all my “edge” was truly gone.

Actually, the mom who called our vehicle a “mobile living room” was closer to the truth than she knew. The ever-so-practical van has turned into not a “mobile living room” but a mobile office. Faced with the insurmountable obstacle of deadline versus needy toddler, I have taken to “taking him for a ride” at naptime, lulling him into slumber, and settling into the front seat with my laptop and a diet coke.

No one could think a mini-van is cool or has the slightest pretense to “edge”. But behind me fast asleep is someone who is very cool, when he’s not pulling all the books from the shelves or finding out how fast he can climb on top of our kitchen table. He may not remind me of my lost youth, the days before stretch marks or the car my wife drove when we were first courting, but he’s worth it.

Being a mini-van mama has its perks.