The Last Pram
On the muscle memory of moments passed
I’m walking with my first stroller and first baby, taking the long route home through our Islington neighborhood in North London, making up songs in hopes of luring her into a little snooze and a brief respite…
Maneuvering the double Mountain Buggy through a crowded Saturday Broadway Market, I squeeze us under an awning to dodge the incoming shower. The chocolate-mouthed toddler faces forward, smashing her donut into the seat, the baby faces me while the nearby flower stand rainbow catches his peripheral view…
Straining to push two hot, cranky toddlers up what feels like the biggest hill in Marin County, California, in what must be the biggest double runner in existence, I put the Shakira song from their favourite cartoon movie on my phone to lighten the mood…
We gave away our last stroller a few weeks ago and I had a surprising cry over it. As my husband packed it into its travel bag along with an excess of accessories and handed it to a stranger on a cool Tuesday evening, I was started by the upwelling of emotion.
My kids are 5 and 8 now. It’s been some time since I let go of the possibility of another baby and grieved the ending of that particular life stage and all its delicious chaos. Our stained grey YOYO has been collecting dust in our loft for over a year and before this moment I can’t even remember the last time I thought about it. My most recent notion was probably one of relief and yet all I can think is — I can’t remember the last time I pushed either of them in it.
We’ve left a wake of dropped soft toys, erratic meltdowns, and pastry across several continents, over nearly a decade. The strain of pushing the emotionally heaving load, awkwardly carrying it up and down station staircases, and scrubbing off bits of sick has left a lasting imprint on my body (just ask my osteopath). At one point I even made a yoga for stroller running video series in attempt to mitigate the effects. I can remember being so deliriously sleep deprived and overwhelmed, so constantly encumbered by the relentlessly unpredictable demands of small children and all their kit.
Then one of them would raise a hand, chubby wrists and dimpled knuckles asking for a squeeze. They’d merrily start singing a nursery rhyme. Our gazes meet and we both smile. Someone demands that we stop to inspect a ladybird. Or randomly announces, “Mommy, I love you.”
Moments like this hold the power to shift everything.
I find myself thinking about this now, in my bedroom after surrendering our “vehicle” (we’ve never bothered with a car in London). This isn’t even about the damn pram. Our current phase of primary school has ushered in new flavors of awe and confusion, and I wonder how the next 3, 5, 10+ years of letting go will unfold… How many more mornings will they crawl into bed to cuddle, hold my hand on the way to school, or hug me from behind while I stir their dinner at the stove? How many more times will I hear, “Mama come sit with me” or “Look!! A worm!” Will I forget the last time each of these precious moments happen, too?
Since then, we went on our first stroller-less holiday since becoming parents. Waiting on the windy tarmac to board the plane, I found myself admiring my “big” kids — standing in the queue, holding hands with their own backpacks on, my daughter now looking like a mini teenager, headphones slung around her neck.
There was a young mother behind us, wearing her baby and a loaded backpack, pushing her stroller with one hand while wheeling a suitcase in the other. She looked tired. I know this feeling well.
“Can I help?” I asked, and the women nodded quickly.
In one smooth motion I pressed the dual buttons to fold down the pram handlebars, reached under to collapse it into a neat bundle, and passed it to the air hostess by the shoulder strap. The woman looked surprised and somewhat delighted, but no more so than my own children and husband who stood and marvelled, I like to think with a flash of recognition.
Muscle memory is an amazing thing, something that never leaves us, just like moments passed.
Related to all of that-perfect story telling as ever. Must get rid of our pram!x