It’s done. We’ve always been impulsive that way — once we know a task is at hand, we don’t tend to agonize.

We traded the Jetta for the first one we looked at: a newish Mazda MPV with low mileage and remotely self-opening doors. The burgeoning love affair between myself and these doors betrays just how fitting this vehicle is, despite our best intentions to compromise everything *but* our funk for our family life.

(Naturally, every last one of our 'best intentions' predate the news of one plus twins. And each is doomed to a similar fate: a dedicated twinkies cupboard for bribes, mandatory soothers until at least grade seven, a front yard littered with overturned plastic Fun Karts, hot pockets and cheez whiz for breakfast, 24x7 Barney... aesthetics and principles be damned. If it works, it gets a green light from here on in.)

In fact, I watched our last remaining shred of funk in the rearview mirror this morning, thumb out on the side of the highway, a red-and-white checkered tie bag over its shoulder.

Likely thinking to itself, Gawd! About time. I still can’t believe I stuck around after the mother let the kid blow his nose on the hem of her shirt. But this? A MINIVAN? That’s it, man. I’m outta here.

Now, all that’s left is the high-waisted jeans, the acrylic reindeer sweaters at Christmas and the bright-white orthopedic sneakers.

And the production crew of TLC’s Ten Years Younger who will surprise me as I sit crocheting in my rec room, then bring me to the 360-degree mirror and pat my hand earnestly as they say, “Kate, why do you think 75% of people surveyed thought you were a Pentecostal retiree?”

And I’ll say, trembling in my pleated trousers, “Well, it all started three years ago when we bought our first minivan…”