And my youth wept...

I have a confession to make...

My husband and I? We are officially minivan people.

I don't know how it happened, or when I became my mother, but there you have it. I own a minivan.

(Side note: There is nothing wrong with being my mother, I swear, because she is exceptionally awesome, and I love her very much, but it's still a very jarring moment when you realize that you are officially the adult in your own life, and apparently, getting a job, buying a house, and having a kid didn't do that for me. It was the freaking minivan that pushed me over the edge. I am a slow learner, it seems.)

The saddest part about all of this? The minivan might be the coolest car Steve and I will ever own. It has navigation and a back-up camera and an air-conditioned snackbox and an entertainment system and voice controlled EVERYTHING and more buttons than a spaceship. And I love every inch of it.

And I'm jealous that it's Steve's car to drive for the next few months, because we traded in his car to get it.

See, my mother-in-law (who will be watching Brigid and child-to-be-named-later three days a week) has the same small, two-door car that won't accomodate two car seats as I do, so Steve and I will apparently be a three car family, come next spring. I have my car to drive to work, we will look into getting a smaller car for Steve to drive to work in early 2013, and then we will have the minivan that stays with whoever is responsible for the kids on any given day. It all makes my head hurt, really, but the bottom line is what it is...

I own a minivan. And I couldn't be happier about it.

(Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go console my 22-year old self while she does shots of vodka and weeps about what an old lady she's become...)