Essential Baby blogger Joseph Kelly
It doesn't seem that long ago that I bought my first car - a shocking orange Datsun 180B with a black vinyl roof. It was an out-and-out grannies car and only cost me $400, but I had a cunning plan to hot it up.
With the aid of some masking tape and a can of black spray paint I painted two huge lightening bolts down each side of the car. I then stenciled the words 'Love Removal Machine' to the driver's side door. Hey presto, a suburban P-plated rally-bred petrol-head was born.
Since then I have had a parade of diverse and impractical cars. The common thread among all of them is that they had an element of style that made them, in my eyes at least, appear "cool". There was the ex-postie van I bought at auction and repainted to look like the A-Team van. This was followed by a silver ?sports car? (or at least that was the 1980s Toyota marketing term for the Celica) to which I fitted a pair of alloy wheels so monstrously huge they scraped on the fenders every time I tried to turn a corner.
In a fit of common sense just before Maisie was born I sold my gas-guzzling beast and, in probably my greatest ever selfless loving act, bought a very sensible beep-beep Barina. But I was able to convince myself that there was something sort of carefree and European about being a boy racer in a hot hatch (if it's possible to feel Parisian in a Sportsgirl edition Barina). The point is, even in making concessions for my new family, I could still drive a car that made me feel not-so-much like a family man.
Fast forward to last week. In some weird out-of-body experience that would be right at home in a David Lynch movie, I could see myself parked out the front of Maisie's school. Around me was a tumultuous sea of heaving vehicles, all massive oil tanker sized transportational units that were a celebration of practicality over style. Four-wheel-drive monster trucks were jostling with heavily populated mini-vans for parking spaces. And in the middle of it all was me, smug in the knowledge that I was somehow not a part of this scene, that I had somehow transcended the ordinary "parentness" of the school drop-off.
Just as I was about pull my car out into the traffic and leave the chaos behind, I casually checked my rear-view mirror. This is when I discovered the most disturbing scene of my whole existence. Immediately behind the passengers' seats there was something I thought I would never see in all my living days. In that mirror was the symbol that my life had taken certain turns that, while each had appeared innocent enough, in their total had conspired to challenge and change the very person I thought I was. In the mirror, behind the passenger seats - WAS ANOTHER ROW OF SEATS!!! I WAS DRIVING A PEOPLE MOVER!!! Just at that moment, right on cue, Paul Simons' "You Can Call Me Al" came on the radio. After roughly two seconds of self appraisal I felt like the most uncool person on the planet.
I rushed home and instantly bought the biggest set of alloy wheels I could find on ebay. If Susie hadn't got to me in time, I would have followed this up by painting two huge lightening bolts down the side of our new seven-seater. All I could think was: When did the Love Removal Machine become the People Moving Machine? Where was I looking when that happened??? Since when did becoming a parent mean becoming the most uncool person on the road?
Does being a parent mean that practicality will always out-weigh style? Is there any point in even trying to look cool in a people mover? Can it even be done?
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