The conversation began as it did in the weeks leading up to each of my son’s birthdays: who do you want on your cake? With my oldest at four years old, and my youngest now turning three, we’ve had our fair share of stereotypical cakes: Elmo, dinosaurs, Handy Manny, farm animals and the like. Personally, I was hoping he would suggest something simple, like Mickey Mouse, since his mother holds minimal cake decorating talent. Instead, he shocked me with his response. In his two-year-old lisp, he told me, “Mama, I justh want Jousth on my cake.” Joust? As in the Calvin College mascot?
Let me inform you at this point that as of this past January my son had a love/hate relationship with Joust. We were regular attenders of Calvin men’s basketball games, and every Saturday home game he would neglect the game being played on the court to seek out the oversized Knight roaming the crowd. “There he ith! There he ith!” he would point out to us. However, anytime Joust would approach within a ten food radius, my son would bury his head into my shoulder, grip tightly onto me, and scream. Apparently this relationship was never meant to be.
Except over time my son softened. Joust, it turns out, is not a terrifying monster but a friend to all. After observing my oldest son confidently approach him and give him high-fives or knuckles, my youngest soon learned to face his fears and made physical contact with Joust and redefined this former “foe” as a new “friend.”
Driving down Lake Drive or Breton, my youngest would always find the Calvin College sign and remind us “Dat’s where Jousth liveths.” And, on the morning of the Calvin College Spring Classic, while all of the other children were playing games with the physical education students, my youngest approached Joust and asked him to play catch. The two were inseparable.
But now onto the birthday dilemma. How would I ever pull off a Joust party? I used what basic decorating skills I had to recreate the Knight logo on a cake, I was able to purchase maroon and gold plates and napkins at a local party store (only because in May they carry all graduation colors of the local schools), and we even printed out a few large image pictures of Joust in action at the basketball games as posters for our walls. And my son couldn’t have been more thrilled. The morning of his party we all donned our best Calvin gear (with both boys in their basketball jerseys) and blew out the candles on his “Jousth” cake.
I’m only hoping his birthday wish was a full-ride scholarship to Calvin in 15 years.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Thursday, December 16, 2010
P-Day, part deux
One year ago today I was in this same position with my oldest son. He was 3 1/2, and I was feeling the social pressure of needing to potty train him so that he wouldn't require diapers when he went off to college. Gratefully, his age helped greatly, and last Christmas break he was trained in about 20 minutes. I believe we've had 5 accidents since then. Don't worry--I'm not crediting any success of his to my extraordinary parenting skills. I'm too wise for that.
Now onto son number two. My reasoning for attempting to train him this year is different--Dutch, mostly. Last year I had two in diapers; this year I am foreseeing the possibility of starting 2011 with none in diapers. I can hear cash registers ringing and can see dollar signs of savings in my eyes. Some people give up smoking and save the money they would have spent on cigarettes by treating themselves to a vacation, cruise, etc. I'm considering doing the same with the diaper money.
Alas, my youngest is only 2 1/2 and not showing real interest in the potty. We've done everything the same this year to prepare: using the Advent calendar to countdown (Jesus was born on the 25th, but he will be going on the potty on the 16th). He knows the entire mantra of going on the potty, getting treats, wearing underwear, being a big boy, etc. I did forget to purchase treats ahead of time, but a neighborly Christmas angel dropped them in my mailbox just this morning. Operation Potty Training has begun.
This year I look on it with different eyes. I realize, after having gone through it with my first, that potty training is more than just avoiding diapers and relieving oneself on the proper toilet; it's the first step into the responsibility of life. Now I will expect him to keep track of his bodily functions and to alert me before it's too late. It's the first time I'm going to ask him to take care of himself.
Currently he's running around semi-naked in the basement, buns exposed as much as the day he was born. We've had 2 successes and 2 accidents so far. Not great, but if he were a baseball player who batted .500, he'd be the top draft and desired by all teams. I'm just pretty sure for a entire 9 inning game that I'd put him in diapers--I'd hate for him to have an accident out on the field.
We'll see what the day brings and who eats more M&M treats at the end of the day. Little brother who is trying to earn them as rewards; oldest brother who has taken on the parental role of distributing the M&Ms upon successes (and requires a fee for himself); or Mommy, who has once again required herself to be stranded at home over Christmas break panicking every time she hears the word "uh-oh" come out of anyone's mouth. Chocolate may be the only way out of this day.
Now onto son number two. My reasoning for attempting to train him this year is different--Dutch, mostly. Last year I had two in diapers; this year I am foreseeing the possibility of starting 2011 with none in diapers. I can hear cash registers ringing and can see dollar signs of savings in my eyes. Some people give up smoking and save the money they would have spent on cigarettes by treating themselves to a vacation, cruise, etc. I'm considering doing the same with the diaper money.
Alas, my youngest is only 2 1/2 and not showing real interest in the potty. We've done everything the same this year to prepare: using the Advent calendar to countdown (Jesus was born on the 25th, but he will be going on the potty on the 16th). He knows the entire mantra of going on the potty, getting treats, wearing underwear, being a big boy, etc. I did forget to purchase treats ahead of time, but a neighborly Christmas angel dropped them in my mailbox just this morning. Operation Potty Training has begun.
This year I look on it with different eyes. I realize, after having gone through it with my first, that potty training is more than just avoiding diapers and relieving oneself on the proper toilet; it's the first step into the responsibility of life. Now I will expect him to keep track of his bodily functions and to alert me before it's too late. It's the first time I'm going to ask him to take care of himself.
Currently he's running around semi-naked in the basement, buns exposed as much as the day he was born. We've had 2 successes and 2 accidents so far. Not great, but if he were a baseball player who batted .500, he'd be the top draft and desired by all teams. I'm just pretty sure for a entire 9 inning game that I'd put him in diapers--I'd hate for him to have an accident out on the field.
We'll see what the day brings and who eats more M&M treats at the end of the day. Little brother who is trying to earn them as rewards; oldest brother who has taken on the parental role of distributing the M&Ms upon successes (and requires a fee for himself); or Mommy, who has once again required herself to be stranded at home over Christmas break panicking every time she hears the word "uh-oh" come out of anyone's mouth. Chocolate may be the only way out of this day.
Friday, July 2, 2010
thirtysomething
I have to admit that turning 30 wasn't all that big a deal for me. Sure, I really wasn't able to drink at my own 30th birthday party due to pregnancy (I snuck a small glass of wine in the corner so none of my friends would call family social services on me), but it's just one of those sacrifices you have to make. Honestly, I was glad to be 30. I had been aimlessly floating in the 20s for some time, never quite sure how old I was. When people would ask, and the number "28" would flash into my mind, I would wonder: was that because I was 28, was going to turn 28 on my next birthday, or did it sound familiar because I was 28 all last year? I even embraced the minivan. Sure it had a "soccer mom" social stigma attached to it, but frankly, with 2 kids, it was just more practical, and I love whatever makes life easier.
A few days ago a pregnant friend commented that she was planning on "stacking" her children close in age so that she could be done sooner than later. "Before I'm in my early 30s" were her exact words. Hmmm. I'M in my early 30s. Am I really that old? Apparently. I received (what I thought to be) slightly disturbing news from my OB-GYN at my last yearly (I'll spare you the details). My surprised expression led him to comment "you're not 18 anymore, right?" I didn't cry, but I did grab a few pamphlets for assisted living options in the greater Grand Rapids area. Would I possibly need to check myself in before my parents?
So that's where I'm existing right now. The "I'm obviously not 18 anymore" and the "I'm not going to spend the last 50 years of my life counting down the days." My husband and I have taken on a new exercise and healthy eating regimin which has been hugely successful. I just ran my fastest 5k ever, shattering my previous time by almost 45 seconds. We've lost a combined 60 pounds--I now weigh what I did my senior year of high school. To celebrate this, I purchased a bikini for the summer season. And yet, as I put it on and my husband convinces me I can "pull it off" (he's smart enough to know to lie in all areas weight-related), I wonder--what AM I doing? I have two children; shouldn't I be content to purchase a nice one-piece or tankini that is figure flattering and yet practical? And, after happily stepping on the scale, I look in the mirror. My weight may be the same as 14 years ago, but my body did not do any time warping. No stretch marks maybe, but definitely signs of carrying and birthing two children. Everytime I put the suit on, I silently pray "Lord, don't let me ever be one of those women where others wonder, what WAS she thinking?"
And then there's the issue of my new shoes. In my newfound energy and athleticism, I have committed to keeping my car in the garage as much as possible this summer. I'm doing it for many reasons, all which benefit me, my family and the environment, but that also means I'm putting a lot of miles on my feet. This made me realize my church/work sandals and my flip-flops wouldn't cut it. After much shopping, I found a brand name pair of sandals which I can use from everything to wearing to church (when we walk there) to wearing casually with a pair of shorts. I couldn't have been more in love with these shoes. That is, until I received multiple compliments on them. Daily. From numerous people. What's the problem in that, you ask? These women were all well over 50. The first compliment I received happily; the next few I started making a mental note, and by the time my mother-in-law said "where DID you get them? I'd LOVE a pair for myself" I almost threw them in the trash. But I couldn't. They were practical; I had spent money out of our clothing budget for the month to pay for them. I needed them.
So that's where I'm at. 32 1/2 to be exact. A mother of two, who even if she wanted to have a third (a topic for an entirely different blog post), is apparently well past her prime. A woman who has committed to defying the unfortunate belief that you just have to let your body go into jello/marshmellow status after bearing children. A woman who enjoys driving a minivan but did demand it be a "cool" one. A woman who purchases a few new pieces of clothing every year just to keep her finger on the pulse but realizes that entire fashion styles will pass her by without ever joining in (and truly not caring, because shopping with two small boys is NEVER worth it). A woman, who, if you see her on the beach this summer, will be wearing a bikini and sandals loved by Fiftysomething women.
A few days ago a pregnant friend commented that she was planning on "stacking" her children close in age so that she could be done sooner than later. "Before I'm in my early 30s" were her exact words. Hmmm. I'M in my early 30s. Am I really that old? Apparently. I received (what I thought to be) slightly disturbing news from my OB-GYN at my last yearly (I'll spare you the details). My surprised expression led him to comment "you're not 18 anymore, right?" I didn't cry, but I did grab a few pamphlets for assisted living options in the greater Grand Rapids area. Would I possibly need to check myself in before my parents?
So that's where I'm existing right now. The "I'm obviously not 18 anymore" and the "I'm not going to spend the last 50 years of my life counting down the days." My husband and I have taken on a new exercise and healthy eating regimin which has been hugely successful. I just ran my fastest 5k ever, shattering my previous time by almost 45 seconds. We've lost a combined 60 pounds--I now weigh what I did my senior year of high school. To celebrate this, I purchased a bikini for the summer season. And yet, as I put it on and my husband convinces me I can "pull it off" (he's smart enough to know to lie in all areas weight-related), I wonder--what AM I doing? I have two children; shouldn't I be content to purchase a nice one-piece or tankini that is figure flattering and yet practical? And, after happily stepping on the scale, I look in the mirror. My weight may be the same as 14 years ago, but my body did not do any time warping. No stretch marks maybe, but definitely signs of carrying and birthing two children. Everytime I put the suit on, I silently pray "Lord, don't let me ever be one of those women where others wonder, what WAS she thinking?"
And then there's the issue of my new shoes. In my newfound energy and athleticism, I have committed to keeping my car in the garage as much as possible this summer. I'm doing it for many reasons, all which benefit me, my family and the environment, but that also means I'm putting a lot of miles on my feet. This made me realize my church/work sandals and my flip-flops wouldn't cut it. After much shopping, I found a brand name pair of sandals which I can use from everything to wearing to church (when we walk there) to wearing casually with a pair of shorts. I couldn't have been more in love with these shoes. That is, until I received multiple compliments on them. Daily. From numerous people. What's the problem in that, you ask? These women were all well over 50. The first compliment I received happily; the next few I started making a mental note, and by the time my mother-in-law said "where DID you get them? I'd LOVE a pair for myself" I almost threw them in the trash. But I couldn't. They were practical; I had spent money out of our clothing budget for the month to pay for them. I needed them.
So that's where I'm at. 32 1/2 to be exact. A mother of two, who even if she wanted to have a third (a topic for an entirely different blog post), is apparently well past her prime. A woman who has committed to defying the unfortunate belief that you just have to let your body go into jello/marshmellow status after bearing children. A woman who enjoys driving a minivan but did demand it be a "cool" one. A woman who purchases a few new pieces of clothing every year just to keep her finger on the pulse but realizes that entire fashion styles will pass her by without ever joining in (and truly not caring, because shopping with two small boys is NEVER worth it). A woman, who, if you see her on the beach this summer, will be wearing a bikini and sandals loved by Fiftysomething women.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Distance
I strapped your helmet on, my son, and watched you ride off down the driveway on your bike. You still have training wheels, a sign of your age, and yet without hesitation you rode all the way to the end of the driveway and turned right, out of my sight, And I allowed it. You are now allowed to ride to the neighbor's driveway to turn around before coming home. I have given you an extension on your independence, and you have embraced it.
How long will it be until I allow you to ride to the corner? To a friend's house down the street? Around the entire block? It feels like such a slippery slope; that you will desire more independence and I will, in some way,s want you to stay my little boy forever. But the training wheels will come off and your desire to see more of the world will grow.
It seems I'm always telling you to be a "big boy" and to "act your age" but when you do I'm not sure I'm ready for it.
So this little "riding allowance" in some ways isn't a big deal. But when I really sit and think about it, it's huge. It seems every time you disappear around the front of the house I hold my breath a little until I see you coming back. And as I play with your younger brother, I feel bad for him. He may never receive any independence from me, lest all my babies someday disappear at the end of the driveway.
How long will it be until I allow you to ride to the corner? To a friend's house down the street? Around the entire block? It feels like such a slippery slope; that you will desire more independence and I will, in some way,s want you to stay my little boy forever. But the training wheels will come off and your desire to see more of the world will grow.
It seems I'm always telling you to be a "big boy" and to "act your age" but when you do I'm not sure I'm ready for it.
So this little "riding allowance" in some ways isn't a big deal. But when I really sit and think about it, it's huge. It seems every time you disappear around the front of the house I hold my breath a little until I see you coming back. And as I play with your younger brother, I feel bad for him. He may never receive any independence from me, lest all my babies someday disappear at the end of the driveway.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Failed
I took on a commitment last December that I was absolutely sure to see through. I made a promise to a friend and began blogging. Easy, right? I love to write, and I love to talk about my life. Thanks to my high school typing class, I can esaily type 60 words a minute. What's the problem?
Alas, I have failed. Big time. What started out strong in January stuck through into February, weakened in March and all-out died in April. That leaves us here in May. The priest has been called in. My blog is on life support.
For those of you following, my apologies. I am disappointed in myself. And yet, when I think about it, it's the story of my life. So many balls juggling in the air that it seems impossible for one not to drop. House cleaning, laundry, gift buying, exercising, teeth brushing, spouse bonding, mommy playing--they can't all possibly get done in a day. As I write this I am in great shape, running numerous times a week. My kids went to bed freshly bathed and each getting personal reading time with me. There are new patio chair cushions that I purchased today on the WOW deal at Target. My boss seems to think I'm doing a decent job. Both my mother and mother-in-law felt loved and appreciated over the weekend. My youngest son had not one, but two, homemade cakes with an Elmo decoration I did myself. But my toenail polish is chipped horribly, my teeth haven't been flossed in ages, and I ate another piece of leftover cake today even though I swore yesterday was my last day falling off the dieting wagon.
Sigh. It is what it is. I am who I am. Human. Please love me. And please continue to check this blog every so often. I am vowing to move blogging up on my priority of things to do. Maybe my kids will have to be bathed less often. Maybe I'll spot clean my house on an as-needed basis. Maybe my husband will be in charge of purchasing something for his father on father's day.
Somehow, it will all get done. Or maybe not. And that's okay.
Alas, I have failed. Big time. What started out strong in January stuck through into February, weakened in March and all-out died in April. That leaves us here in May. The priest has been called in. My blog is on life support.
For those of you following, my apologies. I am disappointed in myself. And yet, when I think about it, it's the story of my life. So many balls juggling in the air that it seems impossible for one not to drop. House cleaning, laundry, gift buying, exercising, teeth brushing, spouse bonding, mommy playing--they can't all possibly get done in a day. As I write this I am in great shape, running numerous times a week. My kids went to bed freshly bathed and each getting personal reading time with me. There are new patio chair cushions that I purchased today on the WOW deal at Target. My boss seems to think I'm doing a decent job. Both my mother and mother-in-law felt loved and appreciated over the weekend. My youngest son had not one, but two, homemade cakes with an Elmo decoration I did myself. But my toenail polish is chipped horribly, my teeth haven't been flossed in ages, and I ate another piece of leftover cake today even though I swore yesterday was my last day falling off the dieting wagon.
Sigh. It is what it is. I am who I am. Human. Please love me. And please continue to check this blog every so often. I am vowing to move blogging up on my priority of things to do. Maybe my kids will have to be bathed less often. Maybe I'll spot clean my house on an as-needed basis. Maybe my husband will be in charge of purchasing something for his father on father's day.
Somehow, it will all get done. Or maybe not. And that's okay.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Accidents Happen
It was feasibly the worst thing I felt I could have done on my husband's birthday. Backing out of the driveway, oh-so-carefully with the minivan (only a week into our ownership), I scraped a snowbank. Nothing really to fret about, since we do live in Michigan and snowbanks are a regular part of our world. But upon getting into my car a little bit later I noticed something didn't look quite right about the car. The slow motion, no-big-deal snowbank scrape had damaged the car, popping out the front bumper and its corresponding fog light.
Mind you we had just taken a car to the service garage less than a week ago with the car we were supposed to sell. Now I was headed back to the garage again, this time with the new car. It was the worst situation I could have imagined. And all on my husband's birthday.
Long story short, it was a miserable day for me in which I tried to fix the situation before telling him so that telling him about the situation wouldn't be as painful. But I could not, and when he finally arrived home on what was to be his special day, I had to break the news. He took it amazingly well. "Accidents happen" he told me. Then we had fajita-rita night and all was well.
Until the next morning. I hadn't let him see the car yet because I wanted to let it go on his birthday night, and he agreed. So the next morning, before heading out to work, I sent him out to warm up the car and to assess the damage for himself. He came back in, hugged me and told me he loved me. Apparently in all of the trauma the day before I had left a sliding door open and drained the battery. He headed back out to the garage, on a cold, dark morning to fumble his way underneath the hood of our new car to find the battery location and jump it. Strike two. I apologized profusely, but he said it wasn't necessary. "Accidents happen" he reminded me.
Fast forward a few days. My oldest son, who wakes up a bit cantankerous in the morning, begged me to play the computer. It was too early to argue, and I wanted nothing more than a long, hot, uninterrupted shower, so I logged him on and went upstairs. Upon returning downstairs, he calmly informed me he had an accident. The soaking wet pajama pants and puddle on the computer chair confirmed his claim. I was angry and irritated. He knew better. He had just been too lazy to stop playing the computer and go to the bathroom. I grabbed him out of the chair and hastily pulled off his sopped pants and underwear. He begged me to let him stay in his pajamas, and I snapped back that it was no longer an option. I turned the computer off despite his pleas to keep playing and marched him upstairs for breakfast. There I banged items and stomped around and grunted at my son. It didn't make me feel better, but I was equally as sure that letting it go wasn't the answer either. I wasn't yelling at him, but I definitely sent a message that I wasn't pleased. Meanwhile, he continued to sniffle sadly through breakfast, sad about his pajama pants, the loss of the computer and his now grumpy mom.
I should have let it go, but I couldn't. Until my son took a deep breath, stopped crying for a moment, looked me straight in the eyes and clearly shouted at me "Mom, accidents happen! They do! They do."
Ouch. A shot right to the heart. Throughout the entire car catastrophy I had been so grateful to have been shown such grace by my husband, realizing that yelling at me wasn't going to make the situation any better. And yet, when I was given my opportunity, I could not respond with the same maturity and love. I was ashamed, disappointed. I stopped what I was doing, walked over to where he was sitting, hugged him tightly and apologized as honestly as I could. Yes, accidents do happen, and I'm sorry I made a bad situation worse. He forgave me, managed to muster a weak smile, and continued eating breakfast. I gave him another pair of pajama pants to wear in order to right the situation, but for me it wasn't enough. I failed my test, and I wasn't sure when I would get another. I just hope and pray that I will be ready the next time I am given an opportunity to show grace.
Thank you Lord, for lessons of humility.
Mind you we had just taken a car to the service garage less than a week ago with the car we were supposed to sell. Now I was headed back to the garage again, this time with the new car. It was the worst situation I could have imagined. And all on my husband's birthday.
Long story short, it was a miserable day for me in which I tried to fix the situation before telling him so that telling him about the situation wouldn't be as painful. But I could not, and when he finally arrived home on what was to be his special day, I had to break the news. He took it amazingly well. "Accidents happen" he told me. Then we had fajita-rita night and all was well.
Until the next morning. I hadn't let him see the car yet because I wanted to let it go on his birthday night, and he agreed. So the next morning, before heading out to work, I sent him out to warm up the car and to assess the damage for himself. He came back in, hugged me and told me he loved me. Apparently in all of the trauma the day before I had left a sliding door open and drained the battery. He headed back out to the garage, on a cold, dark morning to fumble his way underneath the hood of our new car to find the battery location and jump it. Strike two. I apologized profusely, but he said it wasn't necessary. "Accidents happen" he reminded me.
Fast forward a few days. My oldest son, who wakes up a bit cantankerous in the morning, begged me to play the computer. It was too early to argue, and I wanted nothing more than a long, hot, uninterrupted shower, so I logged him on and went upstairs. Upon returning downstairs, he calmly informed me he had an accident. The soaking wet pajama pants and puddle on the computer chair confirmed his claim. I was angry and irritated. He knew better. He had just been too lazy to stop playing the computer and go to the bathroom. I grabbed him out of the chair and hastily pulled off his sopped pants and underwear. He begged me to let him stay in his pajamas, and I snapped back that it was no longer an option. I turned the computer off despite his pleas to keep playing and marched him upstairs for breakfast. There I banged items and stomped around and grunted at my son. It didn't make me feel better, but I was equally as sure that letting it go wasn't the answer either. I wasn't yelling at him, but I definitely sent a message that I wasn't pleased. Meanwhile, he continued to sniffle sadly through breakfast, sad about his pajama pants, the loss of the computer and his now grumpy mom.
I should have let it go, but I couldn't. Until my son took a deep breath, stopped crying for a moment, looked me straight in the eyes and clearly shouted at me "Mom, accidents happen! They do! They do."
Ouch. A shot right to the heart. Throughout the entire car catastrophy I had been so grateful to have been shown such grace by my husband, realizing that yelling at me wasn't going to make the situation any better. And yet, when I was given my opportunity, I could not respond with the same maturity and love. I was ashamed, disappointed. I stopped what I was doing, walked over to where he was sitting, hugged him tightly and apologized as honestly as I could. Yes, accidents do happen, and I'm sorry I made a bad situation worse. He forgave me, managed to muster a weak smile, and continued eating breakfast. I gave him another pair of pajama pants to wear in order to right the situation, but for me it wasn't enough. I failed my test, and I wasn't sure when I would get another. I just hope and pray that I will be ready the next time I am given an opportunity to show grace.
Thank you Lord, for lessons of humility.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Hot Wheels
There's nothing quite like your first car. The independence. The responsibility. Turning the radio up, driving through McDonalds for fries and a chocolate shake. Never having to call home to have Mom or Dad pick you up. Rolling the windows down on a warm spring day.
My first car was a pink Pontiac Grand Am. Okay, so maybe not so much pink, but definitely mauve. A shade of light pastel red that would never be confused with another car in the mall parking lot. But two doors, a get-up when the light turns green, and freedom. I had come of age. In that car I piled far too many teenagers, crawling over the back seat to cram in like clowns in a volkswagon.
Sadly, the cancerous rust became inevitable, and slowly she began to show signs of irreversable aging. I loved her, but I also had my eye on another beauty, and when a beautiful blue, 4 door Saturn came for sale by owner, I didn't hesitate at the opportunity.
The Saturn was a bit more mature, not quite the high school flavor, but more a collegiate, soon-to-be-married style. But the reality that she burned a quart of oil once a week provided her with a short life span as well. I would have been saddened about her death but instead I drove away with a brand new Chevrolet Equinox SUV.
I never thought I would own a brand new car, and she didn't have a lot of features, but she was my baby. And I knew someday I would take my babies home in this car. She and I would be together forever.
Except that the babies grew, in size and number, and the little 5 seater filled all-too quickly. It became apparent that this family of 4 and all their stuff would not survive in the Equinox, and so the "m" word came into conversation.
Minivan. How could one word bring out so many associations? Soccer mom, car full of screaming kids, band practice, mom who spends hours upon hours in the car, shuttle service. How could I, a woman in her early thirties and determined not to give into the Eddie Bauer pleated jeans and turtleneck underneat her sweater, agree to this? It was repulsive and oh-so attractive at the same time. More space and sliding doors were things I believed I could only dream of.
After my cousin rolled her Jeep and needed a another car, we decided to take the plunge. We sold our baby and entered into minivan land. Hesitantly, cautiously, but with some definite excitement. And honestly, it's a sweet car, loaded with more than any of my previous cars ever had.
I love it. There, I said it. I embraced the sliding doors, the 7 passenger seating, and the deep trunk space with open arms. And yes, I do plan on spending hours in this car as my children grow older and sign up for a list of activities and opportunities. I will drive for field trips, games, practices, rehearsals and whatever else is needed. I will pick up friends, drop off nephews and nieces, cart the world (or at least the region) around.
From two door sports car to full passenger minivan. Back eventually to an empty nester driving a two door sports car? Or a forever-lover of a the minivan?
My first car was a pink Pontiac Grand Am. Okay, so maybe not so much pink, but definitely mauve. A shade of light pastel red that would never be confused with another car in the mall parking lot. But two doors, a get-up when the light turns green, and freedom. I had come of age. In that car I piled far too many teenagers, crawling over the back seat to cram in like clowns in a volkswagon.
Sadly, the cancerous rust became inevitable, and slowly she began to show signs of irreversable aging. I loved her, but I also had my eye on another beauty, and when a beautiful blue, 4 door Saturn came for sale by owner, I didn't hesitate at the opportunity.
The Saturn was a bit more mature, not quite the high school flavor, but more a collegiate, soon-to-be-married style. But the reality that she burned a quart of oil once a week provided her with a short life span as well. I would have been saddened about her death but instead I drove away with a brand new Chevrolet Equinox SUV.
I never thought I would own a brand new car, and she didn't have a lot of features, but she was my baby. And I knew someday I would take my babies home in this car. She and I would be together forever.
Except that the babies grew, in size and number, and the little 5 seater filled all-too quickly. It became apparent that this family of 4 and all their stuff would not survive in the Equinox, and so the "m" word came into conversation.
Minivan. How could one word bring out so many associations? Soccer mom, car full of screaming kids, band practice, mom who spends hours upon hours in the car, shuttle service. How could I, a woman in her early thirties and determined not to give into the Eddie Bauer pleated jeans and turtleneck underneat her sweater, agree to this? It was repulsive and oh-so attractive at the same time. More space and sliding doors were things I believed I could only dream of.
After my cousin rolled her Jeep and needed a another car, we decided to take the plunge. We sold our baby and entered into minivan land. Hesitantly, cautiously, but with some definite excitement. And honestly, it's a sweet car, loaded with more than any of my previous cars ever had.
I love it. There, I said it. I embraced the sliding doors, the 7 passenger seating, and the deep trunk space with open arms. And yes, I do plan on spending hours in this car as my children grow older and sign up for a list of activities and opportunities. I will drive for field trips, games, practices, rehearsals and whatever else is needed. I will pick up friends, drop off nephews and nieces, cart the world (or at least the region) around.
From two door sports car to full passenger minivan. Back eventually to an empty nester driving a two door sports car? Or a forever-lover of a the minivan?
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