giant driving uterus

Since the promise of baby #3, I have become a minivan mama (sedans don't allow for more than 2 car seats because once you have crossed the threshold of 3, you don't qualify as a woman anymore anyway and you might as well just be a giant driving uterus). Gone are the days of free rides on the turnpike and obscene gestures from teenaged boys - I am someone's mom and even more ruinous, I am a mom to several, presumably, millions of short people. And so, with this outlook on my life (again, let me emphasize how very much I adore my babies), I carried on with my days of drop-offs and pick-ups and errands and other good motherly chores, until one fateful day. Stopped at a red light near the pet food store, I felt the MPV quake as an approaching wreck wallopped up on my right. Nice. I pretended not to look and instead concentrated my gaze on the margque across the way (why wouldn't I be totally interested in where to get wood pellets and pork chops?). As I was refocusing my attention to the red directional arrow, I quickly took stock of the reverberating beast - monster tires (check), Calvin peeing on something (check), gun rack (check), tough guy personalized plates (check), blaring ACDC music (double check). And then he honked. Don't look. Honk honk. Turn and look the other way. More honking. I flashed my left hand - hello, married, kids, minivan. Now yelling. Honestly guy, get the hint (although I did brush my hair today and put on a clean t-shirt...) NOT INTERESTED! Finally, after what seemed like a 37 minutes of this foolishness, his light turns green and he screams, "Hey lady! Your rear tire is low!", and he screeches away leaving me in the dust of his nudey lady mudflaps. Snap. Lesson of the day: don't take yourself too seriously and if someone beeps at you, pull over to the nearest gas station and check your air pressure.