I am a minivan

Today Sam was reading one of his many truck/car books and he pointed out a pickup truck and said, "Daddy's truck! Daddy's truck!" Then he pointed at a minivan and said "Mommy's minivan!" I said, "Where?" as I wasn't aware that there was a minivan in his book. There was, and he clearly associated the minivan with me. I relayed this story to Jason when he returned from work and he said, "You are a minivan" over and over.

I am a minivan. When people see the black minivan driving down our street they think one of two things: 1) there goes Ally (if they know me) or 2) There goes the lady down the street in the new house (if they don't know me). Either way, I am identified with my minivan. There comes a point in life when you realize that you're getting older. It creeps upon you slowly and insidiously, but it's there, showing it's face occasionally in moments like the one I just described. Like when you realize that you're older than most pro sports athletes. Or older than most of the students walking around the U of MN (when I occasionally return). Or much older than the former students I used to teach.

I thought only middle-aged moms, my parents and in-laws and old people had minivans. (No offense is intended to any of those groups of minivan drivers). But I have one. My view of myself just doesn't jive with my view of minivan drivers. We've had the minivan for over a year now and somehow I have managed to disassociate myself from the reality that I drive a minivan. It simply is. I know I have a minivan and drive it almost exclusively, but I manage not to think about what that means about me. Maybe it just means that I have two kids and a minivan makes life with kids much easier. Plus it's comfortable on my back.