Elizabeth Kubler-Ross was ahead of her time when she established these five stages of purchasing a van.

There are three definites in family life: death, taxes, and the decision to buy—or not to buy—a van. And when that third definite faces us, we grieve—because fun has faded and function has become the driving force. “People buy vans for what they do,” said Matt Stone, executive editor of Motor Trend magazine. “When it comes to moving stuff and people, vans can’t be beat. But—they aren’t a Maserati.”

Gut-busting laughter exploded from the first friend I told about my decision to buy a van. “How are you going to pick up clients? You can’t go to lunch in a van!” came from another friend. I blamed the decision on my husband, who is practical. I was in denial. I was also angry.

I didn’t want to drive a van. I grew up in a van. Remember the movie “Little Miss Sunshine?” That was my family (the part about the van not working, that is…). In 1978, my parents bought an orange Volkswagon van with green racing stripes, and didn’t unload it until the early 90s.

Toward the end of the van’s run, we never knew if it would start again once it stopped. One morning on the way to school, rather than pulling into my high school’s drop-off zone, Dad slowed down across the street, just slow enough for me to hop out without injury, and for him to make it through the traffic light in front of the school without stopping. I admit that I loved that van. It had character—but I didn’t want to drive it.

I started looking at other alternatives and entered the bargaining phase.

Did you know that even Maseratis come with the required LATCH (Lower Anchors and Tethers for Children) system? I could put two car seats in one of those—or in a Porsche or a Jaguar. Now those are sexy! But then there is the space issue.

“Once you are in a minivan and understand the value of the available space for daily use, the convenience level is so high that you just can not replace a minivan while your kids are still small,” said Eddie Okubo, Honda’s product planning manager.

He’s right. A sports car can’t handle a COSTCO-sized shopping trip, a stroller, two car seats . . . And an SUV—even those that sit eight—doesn’t comfortably fit multiple car seats and extra adults.

Aside from space, there’s the green issue. I started to bargain with myself, trying to convince myself that I should buy a van rather than another SUV because it is better for the environment.

I would sacrifice—Joan of Arc myself for the greater good—because vans are more fuel efficient and “greener” than SUVs (at least that’s what I’d heard on TV).

A trip to www.greenercars.org confirmed this. Certainly a Prius is greener than a van, but a Prius didn’t fit my spacing needs. The SUVs that sat the same number of people as the vans, did not feature the same miles per gallon. The vans won in that category.

When I look back, I can pinpoint the bargaining phase as the point when I started favoring vans. But favoring isn’t accepting. Enter the depression stage.

Following the purchase, the salesman took a picture of me and my husband in front of the van. “Smile. You own a van,” he said as I tried to mask my horror. “I’ll e-mail you the picture, so you can send it to your friends,” he continued. Like hell, I thought.

And then I drove it. And I put two car seats and my in-laws in it. And I did some major damage at COSTCO with two kids and a stroller. And, well . . . I loved it.

That orange VW of my parents wasn’t what I considered cool at the time, but when we finally said goodbye to it, we were all sad. A chunk of the middle seat was still missing—my sister, born the year before the car—had cut her teeth, gnawing on the seat.

The yellow curtains that Mom made—and Dad installed—to cool the pleather in the summer were still hanging. The memories of trips—and all the accompanying breakdowns—remain unforgettable. (Ask me about the time the heater broke, and we road for hours, bundled in sleeping bags, on our way to a ski trip.)

That van also marked one of my earliest child-hood memories: Lying length-wise on that middle seat, stretching to make my feet hang off the end. The van measured my growth.

Charles Schnieber, Honda’s assistant manager of national advertising, was right when he said that “the ‘lack of cool’ perception is an unfortunate stigma that has saddled some practical family vehicles ever since the covered wagon was deemed less exciting than the sporty chariot.”

But then how cool am I anyway? I live in the suburbs with two kids, my husband, and now a van. Social events consist of soccer practices and games, and trips to COSTCO (yes, I’m obsessed with COSTCO—that’s another article).

Not newsworthy stuff. My hope is that years from now, perhaps my kids will look back on our van, and smile when they think about all the fun it provided, and how that fun was the result of function and space, rather than coolness.

And driving my clients to lunch? Well . . . I’d rather have a van that makes my wonderful family comfortable and happy, than a coupe that makes my clients think I’m “cool.”