Confession: I AM a Hot Minivan Mom!
I drive to soccer practice, dance practice, swim practice and golf practice. I roll 7 kids deep on the way to most practices. I drive to school, to the store, to the other store when the first doesn’t have what I needed, to the ER when necessary, to Starbucks because it’s always necessary, to my mother’s in an emergency. I drive in rain, in snow, in sleet, in sun, in tantrums and in brawls. I drive to in-car DVD movies, dance mixes and boot-kickin’ country. I refuse to drive to kids’ music. I drive too fast, I drive one-armed with the other handing back juice boxes and blankies and snacks and shoes and sunglasses and finger-shaking warnings. I drive while talking on my cell-phone and while wishing I were still asleep. I’ve been known to drive to the side of the road because I said ‘don’t make me pull this van over’…and they did.
I drive to soccer practice, dance practice, swim practice and golf practice. I roll 7 kids deep on the way to most practices. I drive to school, to the store, to the other store when the first doesn’t have what I needed, to the ER when necessary, to Starbucks because it’s always necessary, to my mother’s in an emergency. I drive in rain, in snow, in sleet, in sun, in tantrums and in brawls. I drive to in-car DVD movies, dance mixes and boot-kickin’ country. I refuse to drive to kids’ music. I drive too fast, I drive one-armed with the other handing back juice boxes and blankies and snacks and shoes and sunglasses and finger-shaking warnings. I drive while talking on my cell-phone and while wishing I were still asleep. I’ve been known to drive to the side of the road because I said ‘don’t make me pull this van over’…and they did.
I often drive myself crazy.
For all of this driving, I drive a slightly battered, very juice-and-cheerio-stained, baby blue minivan with 2 pink carseats and extra boosters in the back.
I wear the Mom Uniform as appropriate for each occasion; somewhat preppy yet bargain-shopped, comfortable enough to deadlift small squirmy children in and out of carseats, stylish enough to soothe the ego and never slutty, trashy, or even vaguely resembling the Schluppy Mom Uniform of roomy tee-shirt, tapered jeans and white tennies.
Under the uniform, I wear a D-cup bra, Hanky Panky thong and a smooth Brazilian wax.
I am a Hot Minivan Mom and these are my confessions.
It is an unavoidable truth that, as the driver of a minivan, I am now a Grown Up, a Parent (who but parents would choose to drive these singularly un-sexy vehicles? Although, the part in Mr. and Mrs. Smith did sexy-up the minivan a bit…but I think that was more Brad Pitt than Dodge Power). A minivan is a statement that I am a permanent resident of the World of Responsibility.
These un-refutable facts have caused me to examine my life, my self, my soul, my identity. Call it a Minivan Crisis if you will. Here are the truths I have discovered:
I have gray hair my goddess of a hairdresser covers for me every 8 weeks, a secret love affair with cotton ankle crew socks and a boob job.
I have over 200 pairs of shoes. Most of them do not go with my favorite socks.
I have two wonderful children whose top-of-the-line, large car seats fit wonderfully in the second row captain’s chairs of our minivan.
My second child was conceived during nap time in the third row of our newly-purchased minivan.
I live in an adorable house with a white picket fence across the street from my parents.
I work and play harder than I did when I was younger.
I haven’t slept past 7 am in three years.
I am over thirty.
I visit Wal-Mart whenever I feel fat, dowdy or like a bad mother. Within five minutes, I generally find someone else who is more fat, more dowdy and definitely a bad mother.
This makes me a shallow person, but I’m OK with that.
At McDonald’s, I order 3 hamburger happy meals; one for each child and one for me. I love the juice boxes. OK, and the little action figures are fun, too.
I lie to my children in order to keep the peace…McDonald’s is closed, Disneyland is closed, the beach is closed, the Wiggles are too tired to sing on TV right now.
I tell my children the truth about the important things…I love them, Daddy loves them, they are smart, talented, beautiful, wonderful. Christmas will come back next year.
I often wink at hot guys from the front seat of my minivan. They never wink back.
I go topless in a thong at the Mirage Bare Pool in Vegas. I go to the local Swim Center in a tankini with board shorts.
I am a teacher, a wife, a mom, a sister, a friend, a daughter.
I have no idea what my original hair color is.
I have an open love-affair with Coach handbags.
I have a secret hatred of playing board games with my children.
Although I have multiple expensive degrees that add nifty initials after my name, I am usually at a loss for the correct tip amount, the details of the latest political maneuvering in Washington or the top headlines from the evening news, but I can name all the Disney princesses, find bribery candy in the bottom of my purse in 2 seconds flat and wrestle two children into shoes and carseats one-armed while hooking a rolling shopping cart with one foot in the middle of a Saturday afternoon in a Holiday Season Wal-Mart parkinglot.
I have realized the wisdom of our grandmothers.
I have also realized the stupidity of the entire male gender.
I still love both demographics.
I refuse to gamble, even though I live in Nevada.
I cannot quite believe that I live in Nevada.
I love Target, Costco and the Dillards’ shoe department. I grudgingly shop at Wal-Mart and pretend I don’t belong there.
I want to be Sandra Dee and Angelina Jolie all rolled into one super-hot Mommy of Awesomeness.
I’m afraid I maybe resemble the distraught Mommies of Overwhelmedness on Nanny 911.
I can say, with a perfectly straight face, any of the following in any situation and any company:
“Do you have to pee-pee?”
“Do you have a poop?” (often followed by the Mommy Diaper Sniff—lift baby to nose level, take a deep sniff and evaluate the contents of the diaper from scent alone)
“Don’t hit the baby.”
“Don’t hit that nice lady’s baby.”
“Don’t touch your vagina at the table.”
“Don’t pick your nose at the table.”
“yes, it’s OK to do both of those things in the bathroom.”
“yes, you may go to the bathroom.”
“Where the double-heck is that nipple?”
“Yes, well, your Daddy wanted ____________. It’s not Mommy’s fault.”
“Guess what? Emma Pee-Pee Potty!” (followed by the Potty Song and Dance, which is a charming combination of a conga line, cheer routine, ballet, and good ‘ol booty-shaking to a loud clapping chant. All members of the family and/or party must perform this Dance upon successful potty.)
I can exist for at least 3 days without a shower and still look hot. Okay, not Megan Fox HOT, but I must be doing something right because my husband will still ask if I want to ‘play’ during nap time of the 3rd day.
I still find my husband HOT even when I haven’t showered in 3 days and only have time for a quickie during nap time.
I’m Type-A, neurotic, high strung, super-organized and a bit hyper.
I work two full-time jobs; wife and mother and full-time high school English teacher. Maybe that was 3…I don’t know: I teach English, not Math. Either way, God refuses to listen to my logical argument that I should therefore be granted 48 hours for every day, so I just cram everything into the paltry 24 he has allotted me.
God, I’m exhausted.
I AM a Hot Minivan Mom.
I wear the Mom Uniform as appropriate for each occasion; somewhat preppy yet bargain-shopped, comfortable enough to deadlift small squirmy children in and out of carseats, stylish enough to soothe the ego and never slutty, trashy, or even vaguely resembling the Schluppy Mom Uniform of roomy tee-shirt, tapered jeans and white tennies.
Under the uniform, I wear a D-cup bra, Hanky Panky thong and a smooth Brazilian wax.
I am a Hot Minivan Mom and these are my confessions.
It is an unavoidable truth that, as the driver of a minivan, I am now a Grown Up, a Parent (who but parents would choose to drive these singularly un-sexy vehicles? Although, the part in Mr. and Mrs. Smith did sexy-up the minivan a bit…but I think that was more Brad Pitt than Dodge Power). A minivan is a statement that I am a permanent resident of the World of Responsibility.
These un-refutable facts have caused me to examine my life, my self, my soul, my identity. Call it a Minivan Crisis if you will. Here are the truths I have discovered:
I have gray hair my goddess of a hairdresser covers for me every 8 weeks, a secret love affair with cotton ankle crew socks and a boob job.
I have over 200 pairs of shoes. Most of them do not go with my favorite socks.
I have two wonderful children whose top-of-the-line, large car seats fit wonderfully in the second row captain’s chairs of our minivan.
My second child was conceived during nap time in the third row of our newly-purchased minivan.
I live in an adorable house with a white picket fence across the street from my parents.
I work and play harder than I did when I was younger.
I haven’t slept past 7 am in three years.
I am over thirty.
I visit Wal-Mart whenever I feel fat, dowdy or like a bad mother. Within five minutes, I generally find someone else who is more fat, more dowdy and definitely a bad mother.
This makes me a shallow person, but I’m OK with that.
At McDonald’s, I order 3 hamburger happy meals; one for each child and one for me. I love the juice boxes. OK, and the little action figures are fun, too.
I lie to my children in order to keep the peace…McDonald’s is closed, Disneyland is closed, the beach is closed, the Wiggles are too tired to sing on TV right now.
I tell my children the truth about the important things…I love them, Daddy loves them, they are smart, talented, beautiful, wonderful. Christmas will come back next year.
I often wink at hot guys from the front seat of my minivan. They never wink back.
I go topless in a thong at the Mirage Bare Pool in Vegas. I go to the local Swim Center in a tankini with board shorts.
I am a teacher, a wife, a mom, a sister, a friend, a daughter.
I have no idea what my original hair color is.
I have an open love-affair with Coach handbags.
I have a secret hatred of playing board games with my children.
Although I have multiple expensive degrees that add nifty initials after my name, I am usually at a loss for the correct tip amount, the details of the latest political maneuvering in Washington or the top headlines from the evening news, but I can name all the Disney princesses, find bribery candy in the bottom of my purse in 2 seconds flat and wrestle two children into shoes and carseats one-armed while hooking a rolling shopping cart with one foot in the middle of a Saturday afternoon in a Holiday Season Wal-Mart parkinglot.
I have realized the wisdom of our grandmothers.
I have also realized the stupidity of the entire male gender.
I still love both demographics.
I refuse to gamble, even though I live in Nevada.
I cannot quite believe that I live in Nevada.
I love Target, Costco and the Dillards’ shoe department. I grudgingly shop at Wal-Mart and pretend I don’t belong there.
I want to be Sandra Dee and Angelina Jolie all rolled into one super-hot Mommy of Awesomeness.
I’m afraid I maybe resemble the distraught Mommies of Overwhelmedness on Nanny 911.
I can say, with a perfectly straight face, any of the following in any situation and any company:
“Do you have to pee-pee?”
“Do you have a poop?” (often followed by the Mommy Diaper Sniff—lift baby to nose level, take a deep sniff and evaluate the contents of the diaper from scent alone)
“Don’t hit the baby.”
“Don’t hit that nice lady’s baby.”
“Don’t touch your vagina at the table.”
“Don’t pick your nose at the table.”
“yes, it’s OK to do both of those things in the bathroom.”
“yes, you may go to the bathroom.”
“Where the double-heck is that nipple?”
“Yes, well, your Daddy wanted ____________. It’s not Mommy’s fault.”
“Guess what? Emma Pee-Pee Potty!” (followed by the Potty Song and Dance, which is a charming combination of a conga line, cheer routine, ballet, and good ‘ol booty-shaking to a loud clapping chant. All members of the family and/or party must perform this Dance upon successful potty.)
I can exist for at least 3 days without a shower and still look hot. Okay, not Megan Fox HOT, but I must be doing something right because my husband will still ask if I want to ‘play’ during nap time of the 3rd day.
I still find my husband HOT even when I haven’t showered in 3 days and only have time for a quickie during nap time.
I’m Type-A, neurotic, high strung, super-organized and a bit hyper.
I work two full-time jobs; wife and mother and full-time high school English teacher. Maybe that was 3…I don’t know: I teach English, not Math. Either way, God refuses to listen to my logical argument that I should therefore be granted 48 hours for every day, so I just cram everything into the paltry 24 he has allotted me.
God, I’m exhausted.
I AM a Hot Minivan Mom.
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