The Stroller. Baby's first vehicle. His ride. His cred at the playground. A look into his inner soul. Where he'll slap on his first Obama sticker (or whoever else Baby M wants to support, but it should be Obama unless he wants his mother to cry). It's an important purchase. And in the end, it may kill me.
I promised myself that I wouldn't be one of those blogger-moms who posts a picture of every single baby purchase, and describes every detail of the baby room development. Not that there is anything wrong with that; I've fully enjoyed sharing the joy of preparation with other families. I just thought I'd slightly shift the blogging paradigm, and focus on other things...like soon-to-be parent anxiety, the absurdness of baby preparation, and hopefully soon, poop.
But the attempt to purchase a stroller is bringing me down. My lovely mother has graciously offered to get the stroller for us. And we diligently tried to get one when her and her lovely friend Sheryl were in town. We viewed dozens. There is no "stroller row" in Chicago like you have for cars, where grease ball sales people offer to give you a test ride. And please, don't recommend Babies-R-Us (see breakdown entry below of July 12). You're basically on your own at a variety of overpriced shops, and at the whimsy of baby store sales people who may or may not have attended the stroller co's representative's demonstration of how to launch a missle rocket from the cup holder.
We found a reasonably priced floor 2007 Valco model that needed to get off the floor to make room for the incoming 2008 models. It looked nice. No offensive colors. Relatively light. No visible stains. Nothing eye pokingly sharp sticking out of it. But then I asked; does it collapse? Sure, the nice overpriced boutique lady said. Let me show you. Now this is where the stroller got mean. Like it had one too many demonstrations performed on it, and it just wanted a nap. The nice overpriced boutique lady struggled for a moment, having to recite some instructions under her breath, and after a bang or two, it obediantly collapsed. "Now you try," she says. So I approached it. I'm a big girl, on my way to Madonna like arms. How hard could this be?
Well, basically for the next 20 minutes, I beat that muther into the ground. I jumped on it, swore at it, kicked it in its private parts, and basically caused a mini scene. Of course everyone else, my mother, Sheryl, an elderly woman who wandered by, and a blind toddler were able to effectively maneuver this bastard into the collapsed position. I wanted it too! It was nice. But I swear to god, when I walked away from it, I heard laughing and I do believe, it flipped me off.
The search continues.
