As one of the wittiest and humorous people I know, we are excited to announce that Rebecca Cooney is A Child Grow’s newest monthly contributor. Here is her first installment from her series, “Notes from a blended family: shaken, stirred, and on the rocks”. Enjoy!
The text said, “Going to [somewhere in Long Island] to pick up a [ridiculously large stroller].” It’s messages like this that hit that deep chord—this is really happening. My ex is really having a child. With someone else. I’m sure I winced a bit. But then laughed. In spite of all of the collective wisdom of stroller-having people—in a virtual country of strollers and strollees—he, *they* have arrived at the least practical option. Ha, you realize you live in Brooklyn, right? Have you ever seen the parking lot outside of the Y at Tumbling Tots time? Umbrella strollers. Not miniature military vehicles.
I reply, “I hope you’ve done your homework. That’s the least subway-friendly stroller out there.” You can probably hear the head shaking and clucking of mild disapproval. A bit of snarky ex-wifeness undermining his efforts. But it’s not out of any sort of maliciousness. Although I won’t try to convince you otherwise. Instead, it’s a rush of images. An 80’s movie clip of the front end of a giant red Hummer of a stroller barging down the streets of Park Slope. Horrified on-lookers clutching lattes and hopping out of the way. A child’s thumb dropping out of his mouth in wonder. “What the?”
That scene gives way to blanched images and body memories. The sweaty upper lip. Chest heaving from exertion after lugging a stroller full of child up a flight of stairs. The wave of fatigue and over-caffeination. And the pause to regain your composure. How do people with twins do this? A trickle of sweat wending its way down the small of your back. Relief. But, how will you ever get that kid back downstairs? Depend on the kindness of strangers? Some young hipster in size 29 jeans and a straw hat? Yes, probably him. He’s remarkably cute. And you are remarkably sweaty. Perhaps a shirt without a coffee stain next time. Maybe a shower.
I am brought back to those desperate, hazy, midday walks. If we hurry, we can meet the others and have an apple cider donut at the farmer’s market. And a coffee. Oh, coffee, my coffee. And looking down under the arch of the sunscreen extension like the flying nun’s habit if it were made of a giant black swimsuit. Damn it. He’s asleep! Between his two naps. The prospect of the second nap that you so clung to to get you through the expansive dead space of the afternoon evaporating into the thick August swelter.
But the stroller is not your stroller. The child is not your child. No amount of your own obsessive scouring of stroller forums, email chains discussing tactical airport strategies, nor your own field work will keep a new mother from those challenges. Your log of fatigue cannot protect her. And now, instead of your nose rabbiting—is that poop? Did you poop? We just left the house! You pooped. Now you will be the person on the sidewalk with the latte hopping out of the way, “Oh, I remember those days.” etched on your empathetic face, as they rumble past.
Rebecca Cooney is a mom to a 4-year old manbaby, psychologist, humorist, and seeker of the great perhaps. In her spare time, she is the North American Editor of The Lancet. You can follow her on Twitter: @BekRx