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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

Goodbye forever
A mother signs away her son.
By Beth Broeker
[02/07/00]

Welcome to Planet Pinkwater
Who could resist a place where chickens sing, avocados think and real estate agents are extraterrestrials?
By Paul LaFarge
[02/04/00]

Filthy living
Our kitchen after supper looks like the Meadowlands after a Stones concert.
By Jonathan Kronstadt
[02/03/00]

When the big news is a big bummer
I'm pregnant and it feels about as good as a pie in the face.
By Nikki Royston
[02/02/00]

My first husband's girlfriend and me
Sure she was an adulteress, but I needed her.
By Caroline Leavitt
[02/01/00]

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I saw them on a Victoria's Secret model. She's in the catalog. She looks so great. She's lying on her tummy in a meadow wearing these cool carpenter jeans, her booted feet up in the air, careless, kicked back and sassy.

It's all in the boots.

I know that wearing them will be like taking an overdose of St. John's Wort or being 22 again and falling in love for the first time. Those boots will take me back to a time when life was simple and free, when having $200 in my bank account was plenty and ramen was the noodle and nothing really mattered because I wasn't an adult yet and I had no idea what was coming.

I definitely need the boots.

My husband wants a minivan. He wants us to drive around town with the kids, the bikes and the dog, with room left over for the in-laws. He thinks our growing family needs more space, more comfort, more car.

My friend Betsy's husband wants a minivan too, now that the twins have arrived. "Do you think the double stroller is going to fit into your Honda?" he asks her sarcastically.

"Well, I ... I dunno," she says, flustered, with both boys at her breast. "I hope so."

"I don't think so," he says triumphantly -- like he's some whiz-bang engineering genius.

What is it with husbands and minivans? And why does it reek of keeping wives barefoot and pregnant?

Betsy says she can deal with sour breast milk all over her body and she can deal with stretch marks. But she cannot deal with a minivan.

I understand this. To me, driving a minivan is like going around with a gigantic diaper bag tied to my ankle. A ball-and-chain issue. If I drive a minivan, it's over, or worse, it has only just begun. Forget about getting smiles from guys in other cars. Forget about anyone following me on the highway to see who's behind that swishy head of hair. I'll be invisible.

A minivan is the big sex appeal bye-bye machine. A minivan is a sign that you've joined the masses. A minivan is a guarantee that you will be picking up other people's children for the rest of your life and teasing spit wads out of your hair forever. Your clothes will always be stained. Your body will always be too big. Get your hair cut short. Have it frosted. Get a subscription to Good Housekeeping. Join the Junior League.

I just want to put on the motorcycle boots and walk away from everything.

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