Real Men Drive Minivans:

My Journey from a Grown Child to Aspiring Father

After what seemed like an eternity, a hushed quiet returned to the inside of our rancid-smelling vehicle. Instead of moving back to the front, I decided to rearrange the far back seat so I could sit with the kids. Ya know, just in case, in the unlikely event, it happened again. And just as I settled into my new seat, thinking the worst had passed, the vomitorium erupted again.

At that point, we'd burned through all of our backup changes of clothes. The garbage bag was stuffed full of puke-soaked clothing. The paper towels were gone. The bath and beach towels lacked a single dry spot. I called up to my wife that we needed to pull over. She hollered back, “No way. I’m wearing an adult diaper. We ain’t stopping!”

At the moment, all I was trying to do was survive. But looking back later, with the gift of hindsight and reflection, I can only ask myself: How did I get to this place? Covered in vomit, sitting in the back seat of a minivan, racing north for a…um, vacation??? This was not my fantasy of fatherhood. Not even close. 

For a long time, my understanding of fatherhood was deeply intertwined with the questions I had about the concept of manhood. What exactly does "manhood" entail in this day and age? What does it mean to "be a man?" 

Even as gender norms change, our society still expects strength and courage from us men. But how does being a father intersect with–or sometimes contradict– this idea of manhood? Can you be both a man and a father? Can you be strong, but also sensitive? Can you provide and protect, but with gentleness? 

I never fantasized about having babies. I never envisioned my wedding day. I imagined proposing to my wife, but the wedding itself, not so much. The reality of these things didn't hit me until after the fact–when I realized my life would never be the same. 

What I did fantasize about was playing catch with my son. Taking him to his first ball game. Or running alongside my daughter as she learned to ride a bike. Looking up with pride and fear to watch as she learns to climb a tree. 

What I did not fantasize about–ever–was wiping projectile vomit from my face or mouth. Sleeping in the pediatric wing of the hospital with my feet hanging off the tiny couch because my son has jaundice. Waiting nervously under buzzing lights because my daughter needs a spinal tap. Riding in an ambulance with my son strapped to my chest because he can’t breathe. 

For me, becoming a parent required letting go of more than just a few fantasies. Case in point: from my first Car & Driver magazine, I coveted a fast car. Italian. When I was young, it was a Maserati. Later, that dream morphed into the classic 1967 Stingray. Cobalt Blue. Convertible. 

When I did dream, it was a scene of my wife sitting next to me, wind in our hair as we cruised to nowhere in particular, just following our whims.

Instead, shortly after the birth of our first child, I paid full sticker for a Toyota Sienna minivan. 

I can assure you that never in the history of my life did I ever wake up and say, “Daaaaamn! One day, I’m gonna be big pimpin’ in my minivan. Watch out, world!”  But the reality was that purchasing that minivan was the easiest sale in that car dealership’s history. I was so afraid that I might be seen by someone I knew that I didn’t haggle one bit. 

And I’m proud to say that this monolith of true manhood is still parked in my garage to this very day.

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Like buying a minivan, fatherhood is replete with instances of reality bursting my former conceptions of manhood. But unlike a minivan, there’s no operator's manual. No salesperson to walk you through how your new ride works. 

Yes, you can read about parenthood. You can try to listen to your parents. But ultimately, you have to learn each lesson the hard way. Like that first night when you bring your baby home. You can’t sleep. Every sound bolts you upright and sends you quietly, frantically running to their room. Looking down and wondering if they’re still breathing.

For a long time, "being a man," to me, meant providing for my family. It’s what my father did. Like him, I put my career first, telling myself that I was doing it for them. But as it turns out, doing this is actually a selfish pursuit. I was so focused on "being a man" by providing stability for my family that I ended up not being a team player in my own family.

Manhood may have enabled me to court and "win" my wife and to start a family, but to become a father, the type who is accountable and attentive to his family, I had to change. To re-examine my priorities. To grow up some more and to grow out of some old ways of thought.

I had to learn that despite what I'd always pictured, I can't have it all. When I was single, I could come and go as I pleased. I could travel. Buy new clothes. Drive a nice, clean car. Once I had kids and became a father, life became about tradeoffs. I learned that it's extremely difficult to have a big, bold, exciting career and also be a present and committed father and partner to my wife.

Becoming a father, like staying married, is a continual process of adapting and evolving in order to survive and thrive alongside the people in your life. It's a process that asks us to develop from a grown child into a grown man. 

And that's why I laid down the spear and picked up the diaper bag. I re-prioritized. It wasn't – and it isn't –  just about me anymore. 

These days, I have a new focus: to be a present father. And in this process, I have found a new definition of myself, a new identity grounded in the present. I am a father who participates in the lives of his kids. I may never have a Maserati, but who cares? The bond between a man and a vehicle cannot compare to the bond between a father and his child.

But back to the trip to Michigan. We made it–barely. We survived fifteen vomits. We went through two adult diapers and filled two garbage bags full of puke-covered clothes and towels. And when we ran out of towels, I was catching the last several vomits in their tiny diapers, holding them under their chin as they wailed and spewed. 

When we finally rolled open those minivan doors, we smelled like Bourbon Street the morning after Mardi Gras. We were bedraggled. Spent. The kids, wearing only diapers, finally began to calm down now that we were done moving. 

As for the rest of the vacation, we managed to enjoy our time, despite the fact that watching three two-year-olds next to a lake is a whole new level of stress for new parents. I now understand what a friend of mine meant when said, “Vacation with kids isn’t a vacation, it’s just changing locations without all of your stuff." 

Looking back, it was worth it. Miscues and stress notwithstanding, we learned a lot. We adapted. We focused on the kids. Afterwards, we debriefed on what worked and what didn’t, so that we could do it better the next time. Because at the end of the day, that wasn't a vacation for my wife and me, it was a vacation for them. 

And why? Because my three little people make me want to be a better man. I want to protect them, provide for them, and profess to them. I want to be the lighthouse that shines the light on a dark and uncertain path. I want to give them the courage to walk those paths on their own. 

My kids have built within me another gear I never knew I had. They have installed in me a drive to reach a little further each day, for them. Because I want them to be proud of their daddy and the man he has become. 

And for now, and well into the future, I will keep telling you and reminding myself that…