Minivantastic

In which your humble narrator purchases a Mom-mobile.

Bit the bullet. Bought the minivan. I don't love it, but it's a hell of a lot easier to insert my squirming progeny into the sliding doors and high seats than in my beloved wagon of yore. No one explained the crippling back pain associated with child-rearing to me before I went and impregnated Wife-a-roo.

Word to the wise, if you're going to be the Mommy and stay home with your children, it behooves you to be a smallish woman (around 5'4" tall) with hips. If you're lanky and over six feet, the problem you run into is that small children are small (hence the name) and spend most of their time all the way down on the floor. If you're tall, the floor is very far away. Also the children are fickle and like to be picked up from the floor and then returned to the floor approximately 457 times per hour. This is a recipe for lambasted lumbar.

And I can't overstate the importance of hips. If you don't have them, there is no convenient place to place one child while simultaneously using your free hand to prevent the other child from eating dirt.