I’m a sentimentalist. In the side pocket of an ugly old purse I seldom use tucked in the back corner of my closet, I still keep a used Metro ticket from my first visit to Paris. In my dress-up coat, which is very rarely worn (I assure you, especially now with three children), I keep a collection of ticket stubs to the various performances I’ve been so lucky to attend while wearing that coat.
You can probably imagine how this obsessive compulsion manifested itself one I had my first child—and began traveling with her. Now lap child ticket stubs and inspection stickers on car seats and strollers are sacred at our house. And after any trip, I like to keep what airline tags we’ve earned waving proudly in the wake of our travel stroller like the feathers of a ceremonial headdress, reminding me with an occasional glance of the great places the stroller has been and the moments we’ve shared together with it.
This morning I had a good reminder of what else stroller tags are good for, as I opened my front door and found my trusty travel stroller standing there on the doormat, greeting me like an old friend dropping by because she was simply in the neighborhood.
Since I’ve been keeping it in the back of the car lately, this seemed a rather odd placement. Yet as you can probably imagine, while in the thick of final edits, proofing, cover design, and several other matters concerning the publication of this next book, “Mommy Brain” has been wreaking serious havoc on some of the other aspects of my life of late. Like the kiddie carpool.
No, thankfully I have not forgotten any of the kiddies in the carpool this week. Just the stroller I used to get my youngest to and from my streetside parking space while collecting the bigger kids.
Thank you, stroller fairy.