In Praise of the Stroller

There’s something of a stroller prejudice in our society. Most everyone seems a bit annoyed by the space they take up on sidewalks, in elevators and in store aisles.

Even in a children’s clothing store, the racks are way too close together for a stroller-pushing mama to even think about getting through. I’ve been forced to lug entire seasonal collections out of the way just to make my path around a shop, much to the dismay of the sales staff.

And yet, despite the hardships and discrimination I am forced to endure because of my stroller, I love the thing. It is an incredibly useful gadget to have around, generally speaking (I say generally because one time I lost a wheel on the soccer field and it was every bit as awkward and painful of an experience as it would’ve been to lose a heel off your favorite Jimmy Choos [ha ha! Who are we kidding? We don’t have Jimmy Choos!], and then have to walk a mile to your Bentley [I might as well continue in this hypothetical vein of impossibility]).

My stroller has saved my slight, waifish, frame (I’m on a roll here with the hyperbole) a thousand times from bearing the weight of a squirmy 26-pounder. It has protected Baby from the sun, given her a fairly comfy spot for a nap on the go, and offered me a place to put packages and thus shop longer and with more spending abandon than I would have otherwise (Hmmm, should I or shouldn’t I buy a J. Crew car coat in all three colors??? Three seems extravagant… but wait a second. I have the stroller! I don’t have to carry any of them to the car. Sold!).

Best of all, in a world where men no longer offer their seats or open the damn door, my stroller has taken their place as a champion and defender.

Case in point: A few days ago, my stroller and I were making our way through a somewhat posh store, innocently looking for a holiday party outfit. In this particular instance, it wasn’t a rack of clothes blocking our way, but an impossibly thin, impossibly botoxed, expensively-clad, middle-aged “blonde”.

“Excuse me,” I said politely.

Silence.

“Excuse me,” I said again.

The haughty dame looked at me, glanced down at my stroller, then sort of shifted her weight from one foot to another without actually moving.

Sighing, I tried to maneuver my stroller around her leather bootie-encased foot.

“OUCH!” she shrieked.

I had nicked her precious heel with my stroller.

“Sorry,” I sang out as she angrily backed away.

I hadn’t done it on purpose. Really, I hadn’t. But I was wanting to let out a vindictive giggle so badly that I felt like it was intentional.

To be honest, I’ve only used my stroller as a weapon once.

My husband and I were at a high school football game, trying to get from one side of the stands to the other. The walkway was packed with chatting teenagers, including a large group of ruffians. All-out hoods. Miscreants. These guys were too tough to get out of the way of a stroller-pushing mama. At least one of them was.

I said “Excuse me” a few times. I tapped him on the shoulder. I tapped him on the shoulder again. I was met with obnoxious defiance. This kid wasn’t moving for me.

So I took my stroller and I pushed it right over the tops of his feet. And yes, I admit, I even kind of, um, bore down, too.

His face froze into a stoic mask of not-gonna-whimper. I looked him in the eye as I passed and saw fear. Good. Junior here finally got it. My stroller and I were not to be trifled with. Score one for mommies everywhere.

The fact is, my stroller’s gotten me out of so many jams that I may continue pushing it long after Baby’s outgrown it. Yeah. That’ll go over like a lead balloon.

In the meantime, I will do my damnedest to eliminate the barriers of stroller prejudice in our world. Join me as we push our rights over the toes of all those who try to stop us.