Over the past week, James and I have test-driven strollers in three different New York City establishments. I’m proud to report that I only suffered one low blood sugar, neon-light-induced meltdown, proving my extreme readiness to become a parent and general growth as a person.
In our first foray into the murky waters of the baby-industrial complex, we’ve smiled patiently while sales people told us that really we should be considering the Cadillac of light-weight strollers (a relative descriptor to be sure). We’ve flung filthy 20-pound baby dummies into strollers that cost more than a flight to Australia (or, as James kept reminding me, more than his dream surfboard), and wheeled them around crowded department stores as if that’s a perfectly reasonable thing for adults to be doing. We’ve watched inane YouTube videos demonstrating single-hand folds and expanding sunshades. We’ve rabidly refreshed Craigslist pages to see if another family was looking to offload their own once-golden-now-brassy chariot for the steal of $50 off the listing price.
And more than anything, we’ve listened again and again to other people’s well-meaning advice about what is not possible. And what we need. And what is necessary for the safety of our unborn progeny.
For me the takeaway from all of this, as with most things, is to stand your ground. Get what you think will make sense for you, not what someone else told you worked for them, or works for most people.
So before I tell you what we settled on, here’s the real point: what works for me in my tiny walk-up apartment might not work for you. Hell, I might soon enough discover that it doesn’t even work for me. But sometimes you just have to take the plunge, you know?
We opted for a light-weight umbrella stroller that reclines to accommodate a wee bébé, not because it wouldn’t be awfully nice to cruise the Promenade with a shock-absorbing crib on wheels, but because folding that thing up to stash it next to the stairs along with the three other strollers in our building, and maneuvering it up the front stoop, and pulling it through multiple sets of doors held open with my more amply padded, but still-scrawny bum didn’t sound like very much fun.
And when we’re not strolling, we’ll be carrying the little bug. Or so we think.