Georgia wants a truck. Not just a little truck—one of those huge, honkin’ SUV/truck mash-ups that looks like an armored car. You know, the truck that has to take up two parking spaces and can’t drive abreast of a Cooper Mini on a two-lane street?

This came to my attention in the parking lot of the Oregon Zoo, as I cursed SUV after mini-van parked in the Compact Only spaces. One was a particularly loathsome monster of a truck, shiny cobalt, a whopping 13 miles per gallon fuel economy, clearly never used for towing the 9,000 lbs it’s beefily capable of. As I was pondering who might drive that thing, and what they might be overcompensating for, Georgia, with her extra sensory perception that often gives me the willies, said, “Mommy, I like that verrry big blue truck! I would like to have a truck like that!”

Now here’s what went through my head: No, no, no, where did I go wrong? Are you crazy, there’s nothing beautiful about that, and it’s hardly even functional! Can you say “suburban assault vehicle?” No kid of mine is going to drive a trophy truck! Then I got mad at the toy makers who work with the car companies to create mega-super ride-on toy [1] sport utility vehicle/trucks that build brand identity and fuel desire.

Once again, I realized I’m up against another major marketing department that goes against my core beliefs, and panic set in.

Then I stopped, and switched my brain from eco-nut to pre-school mind, and really looked at the truck. What did she see there that I couldn’t see, blinded as I am by my green-colored glasses?

“Wow, that is a pretty color of blue,” I allowed.

“It’s sparkling!” Georgia enthused. And it was true, it was clean as Chitty Chitty Bang Bang [2], no small feat here in the moss and pine-pollen covered Northwest. Which just set my eco-nut mind off again: I bet they don’t go to the Washman [3], where they recycle the wash water. I bet they wash it in their driveway and let the tainted water go straight into the over taxed waste system. They probably let the hose run. Grrrr. But I didn’t really want to demonize these unknown people, and I didn’t want to make Georgia feel bad about liking this atrocious truck. I reset my mind again.

It’s not that hard to understand, when I think about it. It makes sense that she’s attracted to that biggest, shiniest truck. She’s all about wanting to be –est right now. She wants to be the oldest, the smartest, the strongest. It’s heartbreaking when, as I try to wrangle her into her car seat, she rages “I AM STRONGER THAN YOU!” I respectfully explain that she will certainly be stronger than me someday, but, clicking her into the five-point safety system, I am currently stronger. Again and again this hurts her to the core. So she desires something that compensates for how tiny and powerless she feels. Isn’t that what those huge vehicles are really about? Giving the driver a sense of strength, power, and security that they don’t naturally possess? I get it—as a fairly small person I have thrilled at the power I felt when driving a rental truck. Yes, I do get it.

So I said, “It does sparkle. But it’s so big, it must create a lot of pollution.” Georgia didn’t bite as I had hoped, so I didn’t push it. Instead I joked, “Look how tall it is, how do you think the people get into it? Do you think they are giants?” She laughed and said, “Mommy, giants aren’t real! Maybe they are bears?” And the subject was changed. Maybe I planted a seed of doubt, a question about why someone would need such a truck, but I didn’t want to make her feel ashamed for her gut-level desire. Or maybe I should have got all in a snit and nipped it in the bud? Well, she’s sure to bring it up again, and now I have time to think about how to bring up pollution, alternative transportation, and why we drive an often dusty, somewhat mossy compact.