While it may not be as common as, say, the sharpie marks on the wall or a fluffy blue photo album, life can be measured in cars.

The soft pink bundle, cooing as he’s cradled in his mother’s arms, a white bracelet still fastened around his wrist.

A few years later, there’s the toy car at the playground. You know what I’m talking about, the one on the spring the size of your head, bouncing back and forth, the boy shrieking in delight.

Next comes the toy jeep, the tiny motor shooting him up and down the sidewalk, his hair dancing in the wind.

Then there’s the real deal. Suffering through driver’s ed, until he gets a shiny square license. He whips around corners at unfathomable speeds, lucky to avoid an accident.

Then he’s lounging in the backseat of one, giving one girl after another a look, then they tumble over, the car for once not being used for transportation.

Eventually comes the awful minivan, starting the cycle anew, as yet another blue-swaddled bundle is brought home.