I love the outdoors. No, seriously.
Before I had kids, I used to sleep on the ground voluntarily. I’d wander off to someplace where the weather’s unpredictable, the atmosphere’s far too thin, and pitch a tent! And it was never any of that “me against nature” business either—nature and I were pals.
Now I can’t even walk to the library when it’s 63 degrees and sunny.
I mean, how hard could it be? I’ve got two daughters, both under two, so they’re pretty portable little packages. I’ve got a serious case of cabin fever and with handy technology like double strollers, the process is a piece of cake!
So we’re off, strolling along and I’m loving the sound of the breeze and the shimmy of naked tree branches in February. We push past a pond where my daughters coo and squeal when a flock of Canadian geese make a noisy, squawking takeoff over our heads. I’m awed by their beauty, too; this is much better than a sink full of dirty dishes at home. I turn my gaped mouth upward toward the sky.
No, the geese didn’t poop in my mouth. Stop thinking like that. It’s disgusting.
They wouldn’t anyway; these are appreciative geese. My neighbors have endowed these geese with an endless supply of stale bread so they don’t have to worry about silly “migration patterns” and I don’t have to worry when I look up because I know they’re too constipated to let loose midflight.
I’m feeling sassy and fit, so I start jogging with the double stroller. This thing is awesome—it’s so long that it drives like an old Cadillac. My oldest daughter, strapped in the front seat, throws her arms in the air like Leonardo diCaprio in that movie. You know the one.
The last several blocks to the library are uphill, but that’s no trouble for me. I’m cardiovascularly prepared for anything today! My daughter (she’s deaf) signs “FAST!” so I oblige. She’s my little interval training coach.
I smell something funny. Smells kind of like my old college roommate’s cooking. Wait, why is that back wheel coming off the stroller?
Looks like I burned the plastic cap off of the axle. Plastic? Who made this thing?
Not to worry, let’s just backtrack to the nearest playground, make a pit stop and I’ll call my wife with my cell phone! Huzzah, 21st century!
Voicemail. Stupid 21st century. She must be in a meeting. Not to worry, we’ll just hang out and play on the slide for a while.
You’re such a big girl, Madeleine! Up the stairs and down the slide all by yourself!
No, Madeleine, careful, pay attention to where you’re walking and not the cloud of smoke coming from that group of ultimate frisbee players.
Alright, it’s okay, it’s only bleeding slightly, no need to scream, Madeleine. See, now your sister is crying too.
Oh good, everyone is watching us but pretending not to see us. These people obviously don’t watch Liberty Mutual commericals and didn’t vote for Obama. We’re out of here.
Good news, kids, another playground! I love this neighborhood. Let’s stick to the smaller slide this time, Madeleine. Oh, you want to play in the wet sand instead?
Yeah, sand on a busted lip is bad. Sorry, should have warned you about that. Uh, okay, wiping sandy blood on your white jeans is a fine, why not.
Alright, Mom’s cellphone battery must be dead (curse you, Lithium ions!) so let’s just head home. Three wheels on the stroller isn’t that bad.
Or two.
It’s okay, we’ll make it, only three blocks to go with our new Evenflo Wheelbarrow!
Oh, my arms are aching, I can’t breathe. I’m setting fire to this thing when I get home. See, this is why I don’t leave the house. Argh! You little monsters eat too much and I can’t take you anywhere!
Sweet, glorious home! No, you’re wonderful, forget those things I said, I love that you’re cluttered with toys and covered in Cheerios and cat hair. I swear, I’ll never leave you again…
Ron S. Doyle is a freelance writer and stay-at-home father in Denver, CO.
