We need a new car real bad. Our 2002 Volvo V40 is still chugging along, but she bears the scars of overuse and a particularly obvious bumper injury sustained when a texting UPS driver rear-ended us. Her backseat is littered with Cheerios and Goldfish, kid books and used tissues. Our two toddler seats barely fit there, leaving a space in the middle that was just big enough for our cocker spaniel (but then he died, unrelated to the lack of backseat space). She’s carried us between Brooklyn and Burlington too many times to count, but we’ve simply outgrown the compact wagon.
Naturally, my mind travels to minivan land. My husband, however, refuses to go there with me. He actually forbids me from crossing the border myself. The minivan, you see, signifies the end – the real and true and final end – of his life as he knew it before kids. More