One Dad’s Quest For The Greatest Minivan Money Can Buy

I’m not coming home without a minivan.

On the day after Christmas, I hitched a one-way ride to Sacramento to buy the perfect van: the 2021 Toyota Sienna Platinum AWD Hybrid. I was prepared mentally, emotionally, logistically, and financially to be a minivan owner for the next two decades. And the Grumpy-Toad-green, fully-loaded, Platinum Sienna was my White Whale. But halfway between LA and my new life, my financial readiness was in question. I sat in the passenger seat of my brother-in-law’s car and stared unblinking at the new secure message from my bank: Transfer Denied.

Uh oh. Maybe I’m not coming home.

My quest to become the most epically uncool, totally sold-out, minivan driving badass the preschool drop-off line had ever seen had hit a snag. And little did I know that my temporary cash liquidity issue was only the beginning of a months-long saga. My decision to get a dad-van so violently disrupted the order of things that the Universe did everything in its power to keep my hands off of those glorious, sliding doors.

The Proud Parent And The Giant SUV

A few days before Christmas, I started shopping for a new car. The lease on my Subaru Forester was up on January 1st, and I had procrastinated. I needed a car fast. As an at-home parent, you learn quickly that, in addition to the cloud of invisible labor on your plate, you’re also the default assignee for all off-nominal situations that come up at home. Needing a new car fell into that category. So while the boys napped, I spent an afternoon diving headlong into the internet to find our next family car. The Forester had treated us well. But every time I banged my head on the door frame while wrestling a flailing toddler into his car seat, I cursed its name (the Forester, not the toddler). Our family had grown from two to four in that car. And me and my bruised head felt like we were pushing up against the limits of the Compact SUV. It was time to go big. I typed “three row SUV” into the internet, and away I went.

I was floored by the selection. Crossover SUV’s with three-row seating. Enormous, full-sized SUV’s with three-row seating. Every brand had an option for me, and all of them targeted families. You can pile kids, sports equipment, camping gear, in-laws, and anything else you can think of into these monsters. But a hard, hidden truth gnawed at me as I scrolled through page after page of Giant SUV’s.

These are all just minivans without the sliding doors!

But no, there must be some reason a Giant SUV is a good idea. I pictured myself climbing aboard one of the monsters. I’d pull into the parking lot at Target, lording over the soccer moms from my perch. Of course, I’d need a 7-point turn to wedge into a decent spot. Head held high, I’d step down from my throne… of course, I’d also need to squeeze my dadbod through the tiny doorway crevice between cars. I’d head to the back seats to unload some human cargo. Of course, I’d be unloading the humans through that same crevice. And this time I’d have to unbuckle and extricate a 35 pound mass of flailing arms and legs without denting the car next to me. This was starting to sound really lame, and my back hurt just thinking about it.

Should I get a minivan?

Too soon, right? There is a soccer mom stigma that clouds the minivan. For guys, it might be worse: if you’re driving a minivan, you’ve either given up or you’ve given in. Perhaps the car you drive is the final link to your cool, carefree, pre-kids past. But you’re a parent now, and everything has changed, from how you spend your time, when you go to bed, and how you prioritize your world. Your Giant SUV tells the world that there’s a part of you that’s not all about your kids. Somewhere, deep down inside, you’re still cool. A minivan, though, is the scarlet letter of parenthood. Once you get one, you’re sentenced to an uncool future. There’s no going back. The Giant SUV gives every parent a massive, overpowered, hideously inconvenient reason to procrastinate taking the minivan plunge.

A world-class procrastinator, I pondered these things in my heart. But the more Giant SUV’s I saw, the more they disgusted me. For a millennial like me, there’s nothing worse than appearing inauthentic. And if I drove a Giant SUV to try to look cool, I would fail. After all, I have never been cool. A big, sexy SUV with tons of horsepower riding high over the soccer moms at Target would not change that fact. People would know. I found validation in this brilliant article, and it was final: the minivan was the only choice for me. I changed my search terms, left the Giant SUV’s behind, and started to get stoked. Defiantly stoked. I didn’t need horsepower, or towing capacity, or off-roading capability to be a man. I didn’t need gas-guzzling muscle. I’m redefining masculinity. I’m a stay-at-home dad. A caretaker. A homemaker. And you bet your ass I’m gonna drive a minivan.

I circled in on my White Whale: The 2021 Toyota Sienna Platinum AWD Hybrid. The luxury trim, fancy entertainment package, and the All-Wheel-Drive would cushion the blow to my pride quite nicely. Some Sienna-loving parents in my network further validated the choice. The hybrid drivetrain would limit my time at gas stations where my wandering eyes might start to covet my neighbor’s truck. And most importantly, I got the functional, beautiful, minivan features unmatched elsewhere in the vehicle world: the cavernous interior, perfect for car seats, friends, and never-ending piles of kid stuff; the low floor, making a less-horrible toddler-loading experience possible; and of course, the magical, elegant, and oh-so-convenient double sliding doors. Man, I couldn’t wait to take my new ride to Target. My heart pounded with anticipation as I entered my search terms online and blasted Southern California with inquiries. But I got nothin’. One helpful salesperson informed me that all AWD Sienna’s were being routed to Northern California. So I centered my search on Sacramento, and there it was. The Perfect Minivan. The White Whale. Emerald green with brown leather interior. Fully loaded, Platinum model. All-Wheel-Drive hybrid. Only minutes from my sister-in-law’s house in Sactown. And she just so happened to be visiting LA for Christmas.

On Christmas Eve, I sent her a message: “Your mission, if you choose to accept it: get my ass to Sacramento. And I’ll get my damn minivan.”

I made one last voyage in the Forester with my boys packed into the back, dropping them off with my in-laws to hunker down for the weekend. And I plunged into the pandemic’s winter surge on my quest for the stay-at-home dad ride of my dreams. Suddenly, I was speeding north through the Central Valley, with no ride home except for that shiny new van I’d claimed over the phone. What could go wrong?

Mr. Finance And The Cash Flow Timing Issue

Transfer Denied.

It was dark when we arrived at the dealership in Sacramento, and I’d had a few hours to fret about my lack of funds. It was a chilly night, but I was sweating a little. I reached a hand into my messenger bag, feeling for the two checkbooks I’d brought along. I had told the sales guy I was paying cash for the Sienna. Bread-winning Beast Wife was chained to her desk in LA, battling a cyber attack on her company, no less, so she was not available for the trip. Without an income, I couldn’t qualify for a car loan by myself. So cash was the only way I could pay. “I have the cash,” I told the sales guy over the phone while our car whizzed through the Central Valley. “It’s just… not available right now…”

“Oh, I’m sure that’ll be fine,” he assured me. “Sometimes they just, uh… wait a few days before cashing the check. Something like that.”

What could go wrong? I was a jobless, stay-at-home dad walking into the hyper masculine world of an auto dealership showroom, trying to buy a minivan (of all cars), with cash I didn’t have. This would be fun. I filled out all the paperwork and watched the clock tick toward closing time. I fidgeted with my pen as the sales guy tidied up the stack of papers. The showroom was nearly empty, and it seemed especially pitch black outside. The bright lights inside gleamed off of the shiny new cars. I scribbled a few more signatures and followed my sales guy down a hallway to meet with the finance department to make this thing official.

Mr. Finance was a convivial, back-slapping kinda guy. He got a little less chummy when I declined the great deal he was giving me on the extended warranty. His face soured further when I pulled out my series of checkbooks, a debit card, and $25 cash. Mr. Finance had not been informed of my “cash flow timing issue.” And he was apparently unaware of the “wait a few days to cash this one” approach to auto financing. At my request, he tried to run $43,000.00 on my debit card. He mis-typed $430.00 into the handheld card reader. He cursed loudly. Swiped the card again. Transaction declined. My phone buzzed with another fraud alert. I sighed and gazed out into the darkness, wondering how much my Uber back to LA was going to cost me. I hoped my sons would still remember me.

We were past closing time now, and Mr. Finance was getting restless. He no longer made eye contact with me. Salesmen milled about outside, wondering what was going on, saying who-knows-what about the loser in the green jacket who drove across the state to buy a minivan. Suddenly, Mr. Finance whipped an auto loan term sheet out of his desk, scribbled down a rate, and handed me the pen. I signed. No income verification necessary, I suppose. Mr. Finance was making my ride home possible, and I was done asking questions at that point. Perhaps he trusted my honest face, or my ridiculous story.

There’s no way a young guy with no job drives all the way from L.A. on a one-way ticket to buy a minivan while lying about his financial situation, right? His successful wife must be pulling the strings somewhere, pushing this poor sucker into driving this loser-mobile. I’ll cut him some slack and get him the hell out of here.

And just like that, I had my White Whale.

The Life And Death Of The Grumpy Toad

The Grumpy Toad was an apt name for my new minivan. Pete the Cat’s unfortunate, sensitive buddy was a house favorite. And I couldn’t help but relate after my rather stressful, humbling trip to the Toyota dealership. However, my ride home was anything but grumpy. The Grumpy Toad and I cruised down Highway 99, loaded up with snacks, caffeine, country music, and the sweet taste of victory. My plan, despite the snag, had worked. I didn’t stop grinning the whole way home. In fact, thanks to the fancy, hybrid drivetrain, I didn’t stop driving either, burning through only a half tank of gas through the farmlands of the 99. The heads-up display and driver assist features made me feel like a fighter pilot, running on instruments while I shoved mini-donuts and Doritos into my mouth. After a triumphant return to LA, I settled back into pandemic life, where I unfortunately didn’t drive much. I took the long way home from my biweekly grocery store trips. I invented new, 2-mile routes to and from preschool. I was eager to be seen with my Grumpy Toad.

“Is that an SUV?” people asked.

“Nope,” I said, beaming. “It’s a minivan.”

Toyota did a great job streamlining the pill bug minivan design our soccer moms used to drive. The Grumpy Toad was a more attractive beast than I’d thought, and passersby agreed. Toyota had brilliantly mimicked the visual appeal of an SUV, but kept the sliding doors. It was strange, but I was starting to feel cool driving it. During the Super Bowl, Toyota ran ads featuring the new Sienna. I was waiting for kids to pop out of the van. But they never did. There were no children in the ads. None. Toyota was targeting Millenial and Gen Z adults, and not necessarily parents, with their Sienna ads! Who wouldn’t want a minivan with its overwhelming convenience for road trips with friends, nights out on the town, and outdoorsy adventures? Toyota was trying hard to make the minivan cool, and I was an early adopter. And to think that I’d been so close to buying a less-functional, uncool, Giant SUV!

Around midnight on St. Patrick’s Day, I settled onto the couch, having just finished preparing the Grumpy Toad for his ultimate coming out party: the family mountain ski trip. I fit-checked my rocket box on Grumpy’s factory roof rails. I assured my in-laws that Grumpy’s ample seating meant that I could drive everyone. I imagined how little I’d need to stop, thanks to Grumpy’s wondrous, hybrid efficiency. And best of all: there was snow in the forecast. My All Wheel Drive requirement might have been excessive for sunny Southern California. But a nice, snowy weekend was exactly the justification I needed. The Grumpy Toad was born for this trip.

Suddenly, a loud bang snapped me out of my self-satisfaction. I rushed outside into the night, a pit in my stomach. And this is what I saw:

Thankfully no one was hurt. But days before my trip to the mountains, my Grumpy Toad had been Grumpy Totaled.

To be continued….