So, the thing is... I think I'm finally ready to admit I want a mini-van. 

We took a trip to Alabama for my husband's grandmother's ninetieth birthday.  It was about what you'd expect of any large gathering of closely related people (TOO closely related in some cases, my spouse would say!  "We’re in DELIVERANCE country," he said, with gusto.)  And it was about what you'd expect of traveling with two small children where there are no direct flights available and not enough antibacterial soap in the WORLD to keep us all clean and germ free --it looks like Jane might have another ear infection.  But it was a great trip and oh, Grandma's face when she held those babies of ours.  We added time and joy to her life, I am convinced. 

But by far the most pleasantly surprising part of the trip was the hunter green mini-van we rented to get us to grandma's house from the Birmingham airport.  

Gosh, it was so functional!  The doors opened by themselves with just a click of a button!  I could put the children not only in separate seats but also on totally separate benches.  (Much harder for the big one to mess with the little one when they are that far apart.)  Trunk room!  Extra power outlets.  Zoned air-conditioning!  All these strange little compartments for keeping, well, STUFF in.  I could lift an infant carrier into place without risking a hernia!  It was so cool. 

So now I find myself in the very odd position of lobbying my husband for a mini-van.  I, who swore I'd never drive anything bigger than your average illegal parking place.  And somehow this is not how I ever pictured myself.  It's not like I am madly in love with the idea of tooling around town in a car that is clearly designed for only one purpose --to chauffer children.  Let's face it, the advertisers of mini-vans don't even PRETEND to go for the "your car is your sex life" message.  ("Hey," they figure, "You’re parents.  You HAVE no sex life.")  They go straight for the guilt factor --clearly you MUST drive a mini-van if you truly love your kids.  (Don’t get me started about the advertising directed at parents...) 

I don't know, somehow in my brain, I stopped aging at about age 26.  Slim, young, size four  --pathologically self-absorbed.  I still see myself as some sort of carefree young thing --throwing caution to the wind.  I can see myself knocking back Mai Tai's (I don't even know what those are but they sound so exotic) and dancing naked on the coffee table.  I still think it's an option to sleep in on the weekends and then go out for coffee at some trendy place where people with diaper bags larger than the tables are disdained, and the waiters all have tattoos and body piercings.  I mean, I'd like to think that even I am tattoo-eligible  --well, if it wasn't for the whole pain and needles thing.  I want a pair of motorcycle boots!  I want to stay up all night and see the sunrise as it comes up over the lake from my vantage point, parked somewhere high on a hill in my sporty little two-seater convertible! 

But here I am, see. I no longer even OWN a coffee table because coffee tables hate small children and I simply won't have one in the house. I frequently see the sun come up from my vantage point of the glider rocker in my den, while holding one perfect and tiny morsel of humanity who depends on me to put away my childish fantasies and keep everything she could possibly need in my diaper bag, which is bigger than my coffee table used to be.  And I no longer zip around town, driving one-handed while brushing my long flowing hair with the other.  Somehow, having children has turned me into a much better driver and I take very seriously the responsibility of ferrying these two young lives about.  I drive two-handed now and I take it personally that some people exceed the speed limit. 

I'm not quite sure how to catch the inner Barb up to reality.  Maybe going clothes shopping?  Because the thing is, I'm a GROWN UP now.  I'm not a Parental Imposter, feelings of disbelief at finding myself in this position aside.  My children think I know everything and am fiscally and vehicular-ly responsible, just like I always thought about MY parents.  And they drove a STATION WAGON! 

So, I broached the subject of the mini-van delicately, saying that I really hate the fact that we live in one of those neighborhoods where you are what you drive.  We joked about the fact that there seems to be a vehicle size requirement to living here --nothing smaller than a city bus allowed. And I said I thought it was really a wonderful commentary on our commitment to being parents that I now drive my husband's green Ford Explorer --the most favorite car he's ever had-- and he drives my zippy little Honda (which I used to treat like a precious heirloom) just because that's what makes sense for our children and our lifestyle.  The only time he ever gets to drive his Ferocious Green Truck is when we all go out together as a family. "Yeah," he said, a little sadly. 

"Well, the thing is," I went on nervously, "that if we DON'T buy a mini-van because we hate what that says about who we are, aren't we perpetuating the same superficial 'you-are-what-you-drive' mindset?" 

"Barb," said my husband.  Calmly.  Firmly.  "I just don’t want us to spend $35,000 on a vehicle I HATE." 

Oh.  Well, there is THAT point to consider, too. 

To subscribe or unsubscribe to this free e-mail newsletter, send e-mail to barb@sothethingis.com.  (Your address will not be used for any other purpose.)  If you would like to forward this column on, please do so in its entirety.  Feedback welcome.  

(c) Barbara Cooper 2001 

Barbara Cooper is the mother of Ana (3) and Jane (six months).  She lives in Austin, Texas and there are plenty of days when she doesn't even NEED a car. 

** I usually don’t do references to past columns because I think it leaves new subscribers at a disadvantage but I just can't resist telling you a funny story related to last week's column. (If you didn't get last week's column, e-mail me and I'll send it out.)  You know how I told you how incredibly well prepared I was in all my packing?  On the way home, we almost missed our flight out of Birmingham.  They were paging us over the loudspeaker but I simply had to change Jane's diaper before we got on board.  So, I laid her down on the disposable changing pad I had, pulled out the diaper and the wipes and set to work.  Of course, she promptly peed all over her clothes.  Not to worry, I thought smugly and I took her outfit and wrapped it in one of my trusty spare plastic bags to be stowed in its own compartment of the diaper bag.  Then I reached inside for a new outfit. 

Uh oh. 

I had TWO spare outfits for Ana but not a single one for Jane. So Jane wore Ana's clothes home (she looked rather fetching in those shorts --they were like clam-diggers on her!) and the Cosmos had a good laugh at yet another mother with the hubris of thinking she'd planned for every occasion.