What came first, the anxiety or the minivan?

Have you ever looked at a mom driving a minivan and thought that she looks peaceful? Me neither.

It seems like every f*cking minivan is driven by a frazzled mom who is barking threats while throwing juice boxes and goldfish crackers two rows back to growling, crying children who are simultaneously sticking hands and feet out the side windows.

I know I could be begging the question here. I mean, by the time the woman needs a minivan she has enough kids to drive her up the wall. But perhaps, just perhaps, that minivan has robbed her of her last semblance of peace.

Minivans are like the potato sack of cars. I get in one and quickly become invisible behind that big box of metal. I become the minivan. I am big. I am drawn to Costco. I volunteer to carpool. All is lost.

And how does everyone just stand by and watch this grotesque thing happening to millions of moms across the nation?

Stand up mothers! Fight against the pressure! We will not drive a f*cking box of metal that eats us up and spits us out! We will be better than that! We will resist.

Resist! Resist! Resist!

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