"And I'll always remember you like a child, girl."

“And I’ll always remember you like a child, girl.”

Last week, I sold my car; the car that I said I would have and drive forever.

Earlier this year I had even decided that it would be the car in which my daughter would learn to drive.

I loved my car.

I loved that it was recognizable and a little famous around town, because of the pink peace sign decal on it’s cute little behind;

I loved that it was the first car that I negotiated myself when I was 21 (I was so tenacious that Shareef, my salesman, had to bring his manager in to deal with me).

I loved that it was the car in which we drove both of our babies home from the hospital;

Many memories.

But, as you may recall, it was recently hit by a beer distribution truck, leaving it with gashes along the driver’s side and a rear of falling-off-pieces, which is as technical as I can get when describing car parts.

So while it spent three weeks in the shop being put back together, my husband suggested that perhaps we should consider selling the car, as it would be in pristine condition and, at almost 10 years old, the perfect age to “retire”, before it started having any major, expensive problems.

At first, I was adamant. I would never sell my car. It meant so much to me.

But as someone who is not a car person as I am sentimental person, I tried to think rationally.

Because as much as I loved my car, and as many memories as it held, it wasn’t my first.

Which made me think, “If I could sell my precious first car, a car with so much history, then maybe I can sell this one, too.”

You see, my first car was my 17th birthday gift from my parents, which I realize makes me an incredibly lucky kid. It was a little black sedan with a kelly green double pinstripe (upon my request) and I got it when they drove it to my play practice with a red bow across the hood.

I have many memories of my little black car, like driving it with my girlfriends on trips to the shore and sneaking out during free periods in High School to move it so that I would avoid a parking ticket for exceeding the two hour limit.

But, there is one main memory about my black car that is more of a feeling than a snapshot; a state of existence; of being so young and free.

And here it is.

During our late Junior and all of Senior years of high school, my best friend and I spent hours driving around in my car. I am always cold, so I kept my car at the “Max High” temperature setting, which meant that my best friend, who is always warm, would literally hang her head out of her window to try to be able to breathe (we are compatible in every way besides temperature). We blasted Cat Stevens and sang along to “Wild World”. For the holidays our senior year she bought me a special device that plugged into the ashtray/charging port that made the whole car smell like “Warm Vanilla Sugar” from Bath and Body Works.

I got pulled over only once in that car, prom weekend, and it was for making a left hand turn without a signal in front of a cop in Longport, New Jersey. He did not give me a ticket. I drove straight to Wawa and bought myself a Shortie hoagie, extra meat.

When I was in college, and visiting my husband at his job, I pulled into his office building parking lot and drove directly into a bright yellow parking pole.

I drove it to and from my college, which was three and a half hours away, and it was sturdy and comfortable and totally mine.

But when I was able to get a new, bigger, nicer car upon graduation, I was ecstatic. As I said, I pulled out of the parking lot of the dealership, thinking, “I am never selling this car. This car will be mine forever.” Because in my mind, it couldn’t get any better.

And then, things happened. Life happened. And as much as I hate to admit this, my precious car started to have more bad associations than good. It was in that car that I had terribly upsetting conversations, and scary drives to the hospital and while it was in the shop, I realized that perhaps this new chapter in my life would have to include saying goodbye to a real, tangible symbol of the past one.

My husband, who is obsessed with cars,

(he has had five different vehicles since we have been together),

found his dream car, and we would be able to buy it by selling mine.

So I made the decision; I would take his car, a cool, three row SUV that we purchased literally for Twin and Go Go when they visited last February, as we realized that when we added a human to our family, we would no longer be able to all fit in one, regular car.

I am not kidding when I say that it was nearly a year ago when I took both kids with me, picked up Twin and Go from the airport and drove straight to the car dealership, where we met my husband and drove away with this new seven-seater.

This was definitely a step up from the time that they visited our daughter when she was three months old, and she peed on me in the backseat of my old SUV. See? My car. My best friends. My memories.

So I texted my husband one day last month while he was at work.

“You can get the car.” I said.

I would sell my beloved car so that he could buy his dream car.

And that is because

my car was far less beloved to me than it ever used to be

and

he was far more.

I was resigned to my decision, and at peace with it, but it was emotional, nonetheless.

Getting ready for my last drive, I decided to snap a few shots for posterity.

Like my faded old sticker that was my parking permit for Grad School.

And the tapes that I used to keep in my console (because my car still had a tape deck).

And, finally, the dusty old outline from the peace sign magnet. That magnet was coming with me. Somehow that imprint survived all of the detailing a the body shop; if you look closely, you can still see it.

And off we drove to the car dealership, at dusk, both of my kids in the backseat of my car for my last ride.

And as we drove, I cried. I cried happy, for the chance at this fresh start;

But, to be honest, I also cried sad. Just a little bit. I was saying goodbye to an old friend.

But, just as it always does, life goes on. And my son was babbling in the carseat behind me and my daughter asked me if we could listen to Red Hot Chili Peppers “Dani California”.

And so we did. Three times.

And we belted out those soaring choruses, banging our heads, and dancing in our seats, and I realized,

it is time for new memories to be made.

Before we drove off of the lot, the kids and I in my seven seater,

my husband in his new, sporty little racecar,

I went back to my old car one more time and touched it. I said a silent “Thank You” for I don’t really know what, but I wanted to bid it a proper goodbye.

It had meant a lot to me.

When I got home that night, I got a text from my best friend:

“Look at what is on the radio!!!” it read.