I have now done something I swore I would never do and that I’m a bit ashamed to admit to.
I bought a minivan.
Well, my husband and I bought a minivan, which was a great victory for him and a huge loss for me.
You see, for the past 12 years since we moved from New York City to Long Island I’ve fought an ongoing battle against the forces of suburbia. All my life I’ve prided myself on being different. I’m a five foot tall, left-handed, ballet dancer and actress who spent most of her adult life living in an apartment and leaving town every few months to do shows all over the world. Even having a baby was unique in my world. But Sarah was very much a baby of the city. She wore black as an infant, and was dandled on the knee of our dear neighbor who just happened to be a drag queen.
So you can see what a shock it was when I entered the world of soccer moms and SUV’s.
Being an actress I found it very easy to blend in. I ditched the black for both Sarah and me, and donned the suburban uniform of khaki’s and sneakers. I joined a playgroup and a mother’s center. I went to the playground and the mall. I drove a Volvo sedan.
Then I got pregnant with twins and everyone joked about the soon-to-be-purchased minivan. That’s when my instincts for self-preservation kicked in. What had happened to me? Who was this pastel-wearing woman? Where was the uninhibited actress?
I balked, refusing to fall into the predetermined mold.
No minivan for me.
I spent weeks searching for a car that would fit three car seats across the back, and finally discovered that a 1999 Volvo wagon would do just that. As luck would have it, our local Volvo dealer had a ‘certified pre-owned’ (aka used) one on his lot. We bought it immediately and I breathed a huge sigh of relief.
I would never, I swore to myself, buy a minivan.
“But,” argued my husband, “we’ll need more space on the cross country so that we can carry everything we need.”
I held my ground.
Then we took a six hour drive to Washington DC with all three kids lined up along the back seat like sniping sea gulls battling for supremacy of the dock.
I relented.
Our 2007 Chrysler Town and Country minivan comes complete with automatic doors and that dream of every suburban parent – a DVD system. My husband has named it the Vannikan Roadwalker, an action I refuse to sanction.
“Don’t name it,” I tell him. “You’ll get attached to it.”
“But she’s great,” he gushes. “She has so much room.”
“It’s not a she, it’s an it. Any way, that’s not even a girl’s name.”
“She’s like a ship. They’re all she’s.”
“This is not a ship, and it’s getting sold as soon as we get back.”
“But we love her, Mama,” chime in all three children. “She has a DVD player!”
“It’s not a she, and I’ve already composed the Craig’s List ad.”
Everyone tells me I’ll grow to love it. They all laugh behind my back at my insistence upon my dislike for it. No one expects me to follow through on my threat.
And I do see their points.
I can’t tell you how lovely a long drive was with all three children sitting in very separate seats glued to the movie showing on the DVD. And with only one back seat out, it certainly can hold an enormous amount of stuff.
But the other day I pulled into the parking lot at a Little League game in my own car. Amidst the sea of minivans and SUVs, mine was the lone station wagon; and I felt a surge of latent individuality. Yes, I may be stubborn. Yes, I may be impractical. And, yes, I may be pulling my hair out the next time my kids are crammed into the back seat as we travel four hours to my sister-in-law’s house.
But I’ll be doing it in my own unique impractical, insanity-inducing way.
Anyone want to buy a minivan? It’s cheap and available in September. The only shortcoming is that you’ll have to pry my husband and children out of it.
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