I’m not sure how it all happened. It’s not like someone blindfolded me, dumped me in the suburbs and I woke up holding the keys to a minivan.
I think I did all this willingly.
I do clearly remember living in the West Village of Manhattan. I remember going to new, much written about restaurants and meeting friends at the Soho House. I can clearly recall hanging out at the same coffee shop as Hugh Jackman and thinking, man, I must be sort of cool.
And then it all goes a little blurry.
We started looking at homes in Westchester and suddenly, I no longer lived on West 12th Street but instead, I could hear birds in the morning. And kids were playing baseball in the street. And a Toyota Highlander Hybrid was sitting in the driveway.
Well, that’s OK, I thought. Because this is kind of nice. It’s sunny here. And peaceful. And life is just easier. I can breathe a bit. And sure the new car is sort of big and hard to park. But it’s ultra eco fabulous.
And then the sonogram showed two heartbeats. Two beautiful, amazing heartbeats and I was overwhelmed with gratitude. Four children. What an incredible blessing.
And then my husband had the audacity to mention that word:
I heard Mini Cooper.
He repeated the word: Minivan.
A mini breakdown followed.
Don’t you understand? I’m not a minivan girl. I’m a sassy city girl. I would never own a minivan. I have on many occasion declared with complete certainty that I would never own a minivan. And I couldn’t possibly be wrong.
And then my husband uttered a simple truth:
“You wanted four kids. Now we’re going to get them. And we have to put them somewhere.”
The man is very wise.
The minivan is on its way.