by Esther C. Baird, first published in the Ipswich Local News, January 25, 2023
I’m typing this from the White Whoosh which, as regular readers know, is the name of my minivan.
I’ve long written about how it’s merely an extension of myself. Where does Esther end and the Whoosh begin? Some days, it’s hard to tell.
And that’s especially true in these parenting-of-teenager years, during which I’ve picked up yet another “sports mom” title.
The last many were dominated by basketball, with a side helping of soccer, swimming, and a brief and unfortunate flirtation with ultimate Frisbee (the potholes of New England killed that dream faster than you can say “torn ligament”).
But these days I am a volleyball travel mom. Or, as I like to call it, a cast-off-all-that-you-ever-loved-doing-because-now-you-only-drive-to-warehouses-in-the-ugliest-parts-of-New-England-mom.
When trying out for the regional team, my daughter was a bundle of nerves and excitement. I, on the other hand, was just cold from sitting on the floor of a warehouse that smelled like grown men who had just played lacrosse (because they had).
Plus, I was very busy refreshing my screen to see if she’d been selected for the team after two long [cold] days of tryouts. If she was, we’d have 30 minutes to deliberate then accept or decline.
Suddenly — if something can be sudden after a long evening of near-hypothermia, asphyxiation, and mental turmoil — she was selected.
We deliberated for exactly no minutes at all and headed to the coach’s desk.
“We accept!” I said, balancing my laptop in one hand and my phone in the other, trying to not inhale the wafting odors.
“Great!” He marked her down and then delivered the final blow: “Practices are 24 hours a day for the rest of time, and tournaments are every weekend that you ever had plans.
And they will be as far away as possible in more warehouses that smell like subway stations.”
“Awesome!!” I smiled. “We are SO excited!”
And we were. And yet, because her team is an hour away in New Hampshire and because practices are … frequent … I find myself here, in the Whoosh, a lot.
But if you can’t beat ‘em, at least find the free WiFi. I’ve found all the hot spots in a two-mile radius from the warehouse, and through the creative use of a cooler, I’ve set up a little desk in the back of the Whoosh.
From my stately perch, I write, catch up on phone calls, sometimes watch TV, and — oh, yes — I started a YouTube channel.
When I’m not writing this riveting slice-of-life column, I write Bible articles, books, and studies. So, to keep me on my toes (metaphorically, since I can’t stand up in the White Whoosh), I set up a channel called Minivan Theology.
The name says it all: once a week I go online and give a short lesson on a given Bible passage, and — plot-twist — I’m in my minivan!
My production costs are quite low. For lighting, I often park near the giant green Whole Foods sign.
My camera crew is the armrest of the middle-row seat, where I wedge my phone. Hair and makeup are obviously an important part of the whole set-up, and I call my YouTube look “Are you kidding me? I’m a sports mom.
I just drove an hour and am eating dinner out of a plastic container. If I brush my hair by tomorrow, we’ll call it win.”
So far, I’ve recorded episodes in New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and Connecticut. I go where the wind blows … by which I mean “where the team travels.”
I’ve recorded in mall parking lots, hotel parking lots, and (of course) my mainstay: grocery-store parking lot.
In between, I am filling water bottles, reading match schedules, and hovering on sidelines ready to pounce into an open chair the moment the previous player’s parents get off the court.
I’ve bonded with the team in hotel lobbies, shared snacks and blankets in warehouses, and gotten to know the fascinating carpet patterns of convention centers across New England.
And unless Minivan Theology suddenly become the next social media trend, it’s a safe bet I’ll continue to do that (you know — until the next sports mom title comes along).