There are not many things that I love more than a good wagon.
And I'm not talking about the cute little red wagons that we all commandeered as children. I'm talking about the timeless classic: the Station Wagon.
Having arrived at a certain station of motherhood, one might be led to believe that I drive a wagon as a rebellious gesture toward the mini-van. While I am not personally a driver of the mini-van, I have nothing against it. It's fine. My love for the wagon is just that: love for the wagon. My wagon-love is pure. It surely does not come from acting in contra to the oft-smirked cliche that people with two children frequently whisper to one another, then defiantly stick out their chests about, and finally cling to when shopping for their first family car.
No, my love for the wagon began long before the 80's heralding mini-van was ever born. My love for the wagon began in Her day: In the gold and green decade of bell-bottoms and the Bradys. Who can hail from such an era and not have an innate fondness for the Sta-wag? Born while riding in the belly of the beast, floating through time and space (and the late 70s), the road ahead barely perceptible beneath your seat? The hot vinyl, the sleek design, and of course, the ever-loving panel.
Yes, different from the current cliche of driving something NOT to be driving a mini-van, I didn't choose my car to spite the mini-van, I chose it because I was born a wagoneer.
