I was so proud of myself the other week when I finally learned to open and collapse our double stroller. It was the Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card I needed--I could whisk the boys to the mall, park, anywhere!
And then there was today.
It was a “lovely” rainy day. We'd been cooped up for a while and in need of an outing. Boss pleaded for the 17th time in two days: “I wanna go on venture!” I agreed; I could use one, too. We'd hit the mall playground and water fountain for a little splashing.
I pack the boys up, make sure they're fed and sporting fresh Pampers, review the diaper bag, grab my purse, put on earrings and stuff everything in the car--except for the double stroller. That was next and it shouldn't be a problem given my new-found skills. Just one caveat: The lower canopy was on this time.
So I try to remove the canopy, promptly fail, shrug and fold the stroller anyway. In the trunk it ... won't fit. The battle begins. I shove it a bit, trying to wiggle it in, sigh in defeat and yank it out. “Godblastedfarginthing!,” I mutter.
“OK, I will try again to remove the canopy,” I vow to myself. “It can't be that hard.”
It is.
Meanwhile, the kids, trapped in their car seats, are getting antsy. Stinker begins screaming. I run in the house, head for the phone to call Hubbo at work, then decide, “No. I can do this. Self-sufficiency, remember goofus?!”
I grab the stroller instructions, run back to the car, study the diagram, get annoyed because I can't find the part they are describing, and begin randomly pushing knobs. No luck. Stinker is bawling louder and I'm getting really flustered.
I remove Stinker from the car and put him in the house, return to my nemesis, yank it to the driveway (and into the drizzle), flip the jerk on its side like an amateur wrestler, and look under the armrests for the right doohickey to push. I push everything there every which way. Nothing. This self-sufficiency idea? It's crap!
I dial Hubbo and he patiently tells me what to do. With renewed hope, I put the phone down and attack.
FAIL!
I yell a bit and threaten to go to the mall with the trunk open, stroller hanging out, like toilet paper from pants. It happened to me twice, and I survived. What's the big deal? Hubbo politely suggests a different plan, like not going at all.
Ha! I put on earrings! I AM going! I thank Hubbo anyway, hang up, try some more.
More fail!
FAIL! FAIL! FAIL!
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Deep breath.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
It was the kind of yell that leaves you exhausted and zaps your pride. The kind where your uvula vibrates. The kind where people think you're crazy--because you are. And there it is: I was a loser, many ways over.
After a failed attempt to go lid open (I couldn't even fold the stroller now, I was so spent), I wrangle the metal beast back into the garage and grab the single stroller, which folds and fits ever so sweetly, like a cotton napkin into a drawer. “My trusty old buddy,” I whimper, wanting to stroke it. “If only you had two seats, I'd love you even more.”
Off we go, finally. We arrive and it's tough. Boss wants in the stroller—impossible with Stinker in it, of course. I carry him football-style through the parking lot, shifting positions every few minutes. “This sucks,” I mutter under my breath.
“It would be a big help if you could walk,” I tell Boss, who's perfectly capable, just not interested.
Eventually, though, he walks. A lollipop may have had something to do with it. We have fun at the playground and fountain, and he even enjoys darting around the mall, thankfully not into any of the ill-placed china as we zigzag through Macy's.
I had failures today, yes. But victories, too. I guess I'm learning (slowly) that no day is all Snow White and her cadre of magical birds; at times I'll also trip over the dwarfs and faceplant into a pile of horse doodie. Yes, each day is a blend of birds and turds, and that's OK. It's life, not a fairy tale.
Well, it's part fairly tale. My evil step-mom is the double stroller. We WILL have a rematch. And I WILL triumph--even if my own Prince Charming must show me how.
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