They Stroll-in', They Hat-in'...

Do you remember shopping for a stroller when you were expecting your first baby? Awww... you took every model for a test ride around the baby superstore, checking for maneuverability, cupholders, and style.

"I love the way this one moves, but I don't like the fabric."

"This one folds up and ulitmately fits into your wallet."

"Hey - TWO cupholders, and the perfect size for red Solo cups containing beer!"

And then you get a really good one, not blinking at the expense because you've justified the fact that it will last you for all of your subsequent babies as well.

But then your second baby arrives, and you go to retrieve your dream stroller from the garage where it's been out of use for a year and a half, and you find it coated in pollen, with the cover caked in mashed, hardened Cheerios and a sippy cup of congealed milk wedged underneath the seat.

No prob - just give it a good hosin' down, strip the fabric and wash it, and it's as good as new (if you shop at garage sales).

Maybe it's not as exciting as going to the baby superstore and anticipating every usless, tacky thing they peddle for creatures that see in only two dimensions, but it works. And when that second baby finally outgrows it, you happily kick that rolling beast to the curb (the stroller, I mean).

And then find out you're pregnant again.

Which is what happened to me about five years ago. So, definitely not wanting to splurge on another new stroller because there was certainly no justification for using it for future kids (thank you, Dr. Urologist!), I went to a local church sale and got a used one for next to nothing.

Understand that this was a nice church, with nice people who would be reselling nice things. So I knew that my stroller would be...nice. And it was! But it also turned out to be the former non-motorized vehicle of one of my friends ("I used to have a stroller just like that one! Oh..."), and her girls are exactly the same ages as my older two. So the stroller was just as old as the one I threw out. Yay.

And despite a great first year, it definitely began to show its age after time. Particularly since I walk about a mile to pick up the kids from school, and the four-year-old still rides in the stroller. Because we would arrive the next calendar year if she walked.

This past year has been particularly hard on the poor thing (again, the stroller). Like an exahusted, retired greyhound at the end of its life on the track, the old gal is practically arthritic, with a wobbly back wheel, no straps to hold in my child, and a front wheel that actually comes off over curbs. I often find myself saying, "F**k," and lifting the whole thing up, Hulk-style, to replace it.

The only things it's missing are the words "Honky Lips" spray-painted on the side and a missing hubcap.

It's ghetto-fab.

Why not just go to a garage sale and get another cheap one? Well, because at the end of this school year, I plan to ditch it in the Graveyard of Lost Wheels and make that kid walk. She'll be old enough by next school year, and I'll have all summer to build her endurance.

Yes, the time has almost come.

But until then, if you see me pushing that behemoth through town, and you wave to me and I don't wave back, please don't take offense.

Because the whole damned thing is being held together by my pinky. Plus, I'm too distracted muttering, "F**k."