I married into a family that names all their cars. I thought this a bit odd at the time—cars being inanimate objects—but respectful of family traditions, when we purchased our 240 DL wagon in 1990 we christened her, Olga. In my imagination, I saw Olga as a beautiful sandy blonde, athletic and tan from working outside, intelligent, thoughtful and practical. I was a new mother then with two babies inside of two years and this characterization suited me well. I had what seemed at times to be overwhelming responsibilities. I would never be alone again, driving to the grocery store or to pick up the dry cleaning. Dangers I had never before imagined lurked on every road, at every turn. I knew I could trust Olga to keep my babies safe the way other people might trust a nanny.

Eleven years have passed since then and recently I had what might be described as a mid-life crisis. One day for no particular reason, I got the feeling that I needed a new car, something slicker, more modern, perhaps more SUV-like. I say no particular reason because Olga runs as well today as she ever has. California is good to its vehicles and in all this time we’ve replaced very few of her parts, perhaps new wiper blades, the radio for a CD player. There isn’t even a tear in the seat covers. Still, I felt restless with Olga. She seemed a bit dowdy, a bit frumpy, as though without warning we had both entered middle age. Perhaps my old nanny needed to be replaced by a personal trainer.

One night at dinner, I mentioned the idea of replacing Olga to my family. My children were shocked that I would consider such a thing—she had been with them for as long as they could remember. My son spoke passionately about how cool Olga was, that she was “sic” (slang for cool), a total surfer car. “Please mom, “give Olga to me if you don’t want her anymore,” he begged.

It’s funny how you don’t know things about your own children. I thought they’d been embarrassed by Olga, explaining again and again manual windows to their friends. Instead, it turns out that my son had visions of driving Olga when he finally got his license. Here in California that’s at 16—only five years down the road. In the growth of a child, five years will pass quicker than the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings. Olga—steady, dependable and now extremely cool—will be waiting.