I traded the mom sedan for a tiny two-door a few months ago, figuring my days carting around a gaggle of girls, with their muddy soccer cleats and purple softball bats, were over. The first Civic excursion was a summer trip to Pinetop with a sidekick that pops to the top of Camelback Mountain every morning, so she had no problema squeezing into my small, sweet ride as all four cylinders chugged up the big hill. We've had nights on the town since, with four grown-up passengers, not a rolling backpack or bag of Goldfish crackers in sight, that went well, too. But on an excursion last week, with two out of four ladies on the injured list, I was wishing for a mini-van. The tall one with the unbendable ankle cast needed shotgun, leaving the one with a new fixed-up knee to maneuver into the back. It wasn't pretty. Like a game of Twister, everybody called out instructions to both in order to avoid further damage - left foot here, butt first, head down, bend lower, watch out, push the seat back, need some ibuprophen? We all finally made it in and as I drove by the two SUVs parked in front of my house, I wondered why we didn't take somebody else's car. We made our way down the 51 to The Windsor and my prayers were answered when I scored a parking spot right up front, thankfully avoiding a ten minute valet audience while we unraveled ourselves, one backwards, a-la Winnie The Pooh, from the car, until we are all cracking up.
Dear SUV in front of my house, "eat your heart out."
