Truck Mom

Confessions of a Truck Mom

I drive a Ram 1500. A big, yellow, absolutely unhinged beast of a truck. And I need you to understand something: I didn't choose the truck mom life. The truck mom life chose me the day I realized I had six kids and a sedan was a clown car.

People have OPINIONS about moms in big trucks. Men at gas stations nod at me like I'm one of them. Other moms in minivans look at me like I'm cosplaying. And my kids? My kids think I'm the coolest person alive, which — given that I'm the one who enforces bedtime — I'll take whatever cool points I can get.

Here's what nobody tells you about truck mom life: it's practical AND it's a personality. Practical, because I can haul six kids, a week of groceries, sports gear, and a emotional support everything. Personality, because there's something about rolling up to school pickup in a Ram that says “yes, I'm the mom, and yes, I could also tow your house.”

The truck has seen things. Goldfish crackers ground so deep into the upholstery they've become part of the vehicle's structural integrity. A mysterious sticky spot on the back seat that I have chosen — as a form of self-care — never to investigate. Six different water bottles, all empty, all claimed by no one.

But here's my favorite truck mom moment: the day my daughter's friend climbed in and whispered, “your mom's truck is SO cool.” And my daughter — my sweet girl who tells me I'm embarrassing at least twice a day — just nodded like, yeah. Yeah, she is.

I'll be riding that high for months.

Truck moms, minivan moms, sedan-clown-car moms: what's your ride, and what's the weirdest thing living in it right now? No judgment. Okay — minimal judgment.