TwoBert officially has no further use for his carseat. He could probably fit into it for another few weeks, but when we try to strap him in he whimpers and desperately contorts his body away from the harness. Enough of traveling pinioned on his back, staring up helplessly at the same old tree branches, gaudy Renaissance Revival cornices, and Daddy's nose hair. He wants to face forward and find out just who the hell is making all that goddamn noise.
Our current stroller is a mere shell of its former self, ravaged by time and covered with a veneer of snack detritus, sunscreen, and city filth. Replacing it with a newer, lighter model would have been the normal way to go--until Robert got his bike. The kid has taken to his new ride like a fish to water, and his favorite pastime is challenging anyone within earshot to race him to the corner. He has also already figured out how to lay a patch by speeding up and slamming backward on his pedals. (And I have caught myself before telling him to stop doing that and conserve the treads, because I'm not prepared to be That Dad just yet.)
We needed an upgrade, so my wife spent weeks combing the parent boards and personal ads before she pounced on a jogging stroller that was available for half its retail price. It's a beautiful thing, used just once by her previous owner, with shocks, a handbrake, and a large sun canopy. And after a week of usage, I can reliably conclude that it's the perfect conveyance for someone with a lifestyle diametrically opposite to mine.
The first thing is the bigness. It's big. It's so big, you wonder what brand of Champagne was smashed across the prow when it was launched. Even folded, it's as big as many other pieces of furniture in our home. Frankly, it's big enough for passers-by to question my endowment. Which is just silly.
Secondly, there's the fixed front wheel, which gives it a turning radius of about 16 nautical miles. It's great at jogging speed, but awful when you have to slalom through crowds of oblivious i-Holes.
Thirdly, there's the whole idea of jogging. With the baby. Ridiculous.
And lastly, when I push the thing around town, I feel like a conspicuously consumptive dipshit. People may make cow eyes at TwoBert while he looks out, delighted to see where he's going, but inside they're telling me to take my Sport Utility Stroller back to Tarrytown or Manhasset or Livingston. Back where you belong, you big wanker.
We'll give it another week or so, to see if we discover some hidden value. If not, we'll try to flip it before it gets too cold. (That's another thing--wind whips right through it. Kind of unfavorable during the winter.) If we can't unload it, we might have to prop a begonia on it and stick it in the corner until the Spring thaw.
