Telephone ringing…


“Hey, hold on a sec, I’m having a MAJOR knock down, drag out fight with my husband.”


“Hi, I’m back.”

“Everything ok?”

“No. He wants me to get a minivan.”

For many of us, the minivan is the final straw, and unlike all of the other lines we begrudgingly stepped over with a shrug and a sigh, this is the one line in the sand we will not cross.

People in minivan commercials do seem so happy. Hell, I have friends who have caved and amazingly their lives didn’t twist into a downward spiral with the first click of the automatic sliding doors. They even seem a little calmer as they buckle their kids in and put their bags of groceries and crap in the abundant space that is their new living room on wheels.

My mind gets the minivan. My mind appreciates the convenience and practicality of the minivan. My mind doesn’t judge those in minivans, my mind applauds their wise decision. It’s my soul that can’t bear it.

My car is the last hope I have of being a person and not just a mom. For ten minutes a day before I pick up my kids from school, I am in the drivers seat. Alone. Yes, my car might has cheerios everywhere and mud all over the mats. My trunk is a mobile sporting goods shop and there are books and headphones littered in between the seats. Any available crevice has wrappers from snacks and snotted up tissues. But, when my kids are out of the car and I am alone, I can blast Bruce Springsteen. I can pretend I’m driving to the beach and it’s the summer before college. I can drive by 20-somethings and trick myself into thinking I am their peer. I can just be me, or relish the hazy memory of a former me.

I have given 99 percent of myself over to this mom thing. I gave my kids my young body only to have it returned worn and wrinkled. My bed has crumbs, my couch has been vomited on and my hair hasn’t been blown dry in weeks. I have handed over my TV and while I would like to watch Downton Abbey on the couch I am offered Jesse. Again and again. I have given my kids my late nights and early mornings. I play with dolls, color, tell stories and shoot hoops. I read books that I don’t enjoy, repeatedly, and cook when I’d rather order a salad. I have given them my everything, well practically everything.

“Just wrap your legs ’round these velvet rims. And strap your hands ‘cross my engines.” Ah Bruce.

There is no way I can blast this from a minivan and feign cool. There is no feigning anything from a minivan. It’s a big, huge, neon sign that I have literally handed over my keys, handed over everything to this motherhood thing.

No way, no how are you getting my car too.