This is me on Saturday, crammed in between two car seats, entertaining my young progeny while on the New Jersey Turnpike, stuck in traffic.
Entertaining means: Pulling things out of my diaper bag to shake in front of the baby, helping Sam with his iPad, squeezing food into the baby’s mouth, helping Sam screw and unscrew his water bottle, blowing raspberries on the baby, feeding Cheerios to Sam and the baby. And then having my husband help me out of middle seat as I was really, really stuck back there.
When I told my best friend (who lives in Suburban Maryland) that I was pregnant with Kit, the first thing she said was, “You’re going to need a Suburban.”
And I shuddered, because: No way. NO WAY.
Although my husband (6’5″) and I (5’10”) are literal giants who roam the earth, we’ve always been “contained.” Small cars, small apartments while living in Big Cities. We’re humble giants and have never really subscribed to the American way of Supersizing things.
And then the second car seat came into play. And the dog was left home during all road trips as there was no place for her to sit.
When we were first given our current car (a Volvo station wagon), I never thought we would ever need a bigger car, ever. The car is BIG. So big. And so nice! It was going to be Sam’s car when he turned 16 and then Kit’s dowry. (We don’t have many nice, expensive things.)
I am still holding out that we won’t need one. And there are always minivans to tide us over until the kids are in their boosters. Which will be when they are 14, according to the car seat lobby.