Road Trips and Best Friends

As we put our name on the waiting list at Pops, I texted my childhood best friend Bobbi and told her we were “in town” for the evening. I had a package for her sweet momma who was battling cancer. Since my daughters and I had taken a last-minute road trip to Pops in Arcadia, I decided we’d sneak a visit in with Bobbi as well.

Instead of waiting for us to finish our meal and then drive on in, Bobbi decided to join us for a soda. We had just been seated when I saw Bobbi walk across the parking lot. I jumped up and greeted her at the door with a great big hug.

When Bobbi and I were in elementary, we lived just a block from each other and the weekends were for staying at each other’s homes. Often times, we’d go straight home on a Friday night and not see the other’s families until Sunday morning at church. We called each other’s parents “Mom” and “Dad”, and we’d spent hours lamenting the fact that we each had the world’s worst sister. Or so we thought. Our lives had crossed the fine line from friendship to family.

We shared onion rings and stories during our impromptu time together. Bobbi has three boys, and I have two girls; we compared and contrasted raising sons and daughters.

We laughed about the time we took a sign language class after school and decided that, based on that one class, we could drop out of school and start our own school for the deaf. We got as far as making five flyers before we dropped that idea.

We chatted about our hometown – where I still live, about what’s changed and what will never change. We giggled remembering the time that we actually drove my dad out of the camper and into the unpadded bed of his truck during a weekend at Osage Hills State Park.

And, of course, we talked about her momma and the battle that lay before her.

Long after we had finished our onion rings and our bottles of exotic root beer, we continued to sit in our window seat and talk. I’d occasionally glance over at my daughters hoping they’d see the value of a good girlfriend. I hoped that the lesson they’d take from this last-minute reunion was that friends are sweet and understanding and carry you through times of trial with love and laughter.

Eventually, though, because it was late and we still had to drive home, we parted ways. Bobbi walked to the minivan and accepted her momma’s care package. We hugged tight and promised to get together more often. I shut my door and turned to make sure my girls were buckled in.

I looked at their sweet faces and wished for them a lifelong friend like I had in Bobbi.

“Momma?” my first born softly spoke.

“Yes, Baby?” I said, anticipating her request for more stories from my childhood or questions about Bobbi’s momma’s battle or a plea to do it again.

“I was just wondering,” she started, “Did you even know that lady?”

I guess some lessons need to be more blatant.

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Mrs. Minivan Momma

for a day!

Heather Davis IS Minivan Momma. In 2001 she vowed to never own a minivan. Then in 2004 she found herself nursing a newborn in the restroom of a minivan dealership. She cried on the way home. Not because she bought a minivan either. Why? Guess you will just have to go find more about Mrs. Minivan Momma here.

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