Car Wash Woes
This article is from the archive of The New York Sun before the launch of its new website in 2022. The Sun has neither altered nor updated such articles but will seek to correct any errors, mis-categorizations or other problems introduced during transfer.
Unlike most parents in America, we New Yorkers don’t drive cars every day. Many of us don’t even own a car, a lifestyle difference at which my friends who live outside the city routinely marvel.
My mother – who grew up in Scranton, Penn., before moving to the city – drove us to school. And maybe because of that, I, too, often pile my children into the car to drive them to school.
With this rainy month behind us, I have spent more time in my car driving around the city than ever before. We’ve gone bowling at Chelsea Piers, visited the party store on 125th Street, attended Halloween and birthday parties all over the map, and yes, driven back and forth to school for drop-off and pick-up more times than I care to remember.
So when I got into my car the other day and decided to double-check that my boys had properly put their seat belts across their booster seats, I should have expected to see a mess in our Toyota’s third row. After all, I have been the one throwing them cheese sticks and juice boxes, apple slices and Smart Puffs, while we travel from one activity to the next.
But when I actually managed to heave my upper half into the third row – which takes a fair amount of flexibility and acrobatic finesse – I gasped. There, at my boys’ feet, were at least several inches of crushed Goldfish, Ziplocs full of old fruit, crumpled juice boxes, paper plates, pizza crusts, and discarded party favor bags.
There were letters from the schools reporting cases of strep and conjunctivitis. There were bottles of milk for the baby that were solidified. There were sippy cups originally filled with diluted grape juice that were probably pure alcohol by now. And I hadn’t even looked under the seats.
This was a job too big for me and my DustBuster. It was time to go to the car wash.
The boys were excited. The more I thought about it, the more excited I was, too. I remembered that there was a fabulous car wash in White Plains called Splash, and 28 minutes later, we pulled up to the car wash.
Did I want “The Works”? Did I want the mats shampooed? Did I want the seats vacuumed or hand-washed? Did I want my wheels cleaned?
“I don’t care at all about the outside of the car. Just the inside,” I told the man helping me.
He leaned his head inside the car, grimacing as he surveyed the damage. “You need the Super Interior,” he said.
It seemed like the best $30 I would ever spend, and it included an exterior wash as well. We were all a little disappointed that we didn’t get to sit inside the car while it went through the exterior wash. But 20 minutes later, after four guys had attacked the car with vacuums and rags, the car was gleaming, inside and out.
“Is this really our car?” Josh asked.
“Of course it’s our car,” Jacob sneered as only older siblings can. “It really looks different though,” he added gently.
“Was the dash always black?” I asked. “I thought it was gray.”
I resolved there and then to keep the car in its post-Splash glory. During the wait for the car, I bought small boxes of tissues to keep in the car. I bought Kleenex wipes. I bought HandySaks – glorified small garbage bags, neatly packaged, that attached to the gearshift. I vowed that all garbage would go in the bag and the bag would be frequently changed.
The boys agreed. We were turning over a new leaf.
On the way home, as we marveled at the orange and gold and pink leaves, a tremendous burst of laughter broke out in the third row.
“What’s so funny?” I asked, savoring the moment.
No answer. In my rearview mirror I could see that the boys were laughing so hard that they were silent.
“Really,” I asked again, “What’s so funny?”
“We can’t tell you,” Jacob eked out as he gasped for air. I was still enjoying how much fun they were having together.
“Come on,” I said lightly. “‘Fess up.”
“You promise you won’t be mad?” Jacob asked.
In an instant, it didn’t sound so funny anymore. “Just tell me,” I said.
“The bottle of Snapple spilled all over,” Josh confessed, and again, the two of them burst into hysterics.
The Snapple I had bought with the pizza, which they had eaten in the car on the way up to the car wash – before I had turned over my new leaf – had somehow been left in the car after it was washed.
I briefly contemplated getting angry. But at who? The boys? The men who washed the car? Myself?
“Did the whole thing spill?” I asked pitifully.
“No,” said Josh. “There’s still a lot left.”
“Good,” I said, somewhat relieved. “Don’t let the rest spill.”
We will turn over a new leaf. Very, very slowly.