I get it, I really do. Like you, I have a 2-year-old and a 6-month-old. While an otherwise spectacular January day, it’s minus-goddam-fahrenheit out, and until America kicks its oil dependency by finally discovering a means to harness toddler energy, you and I must let them run and scream themselves stupid in indoor clusterfucks like Zoomazium.
Here is precisely where our similarities end.
On the way in to Zoomazium, I too had to maneuver the 4000-strong stroller brigade out front, then walk past the large sign that clearly reads “No strollers.” Unlike you, however, I actually complied.
Now far be it from me to discourage rule-breaking. I regularly violate rules of traffic, physics, and recommended alcohol intake, and am generally a notorious scofflaw, if only because so many laws deserve a strong scoffing. Even now, at this very moment, I scoff: that sign on the floor that says “Four and older climb the boulder/Under four? Stay on the floor”? Yeah, we’re violating that, but only because the boulder leads to the ginormous slide, and sealing Eliot in a room and telling her to stay off the motherhonking slide is like locking me in a room with a fifth of Grey Goose and a plate of broccoli and admonishing me to choose wisely in that IT IS CRUEL AND WILL NOT HAPPEN.
You, however, apparently saw a different sign on the way in, one that perhaps read “No strollers under $900,” or maybe “No strollers except those pushed by pretty, pretty princesses!” because here you are, attached to… a stroller!
Now back to that whole “rules” thing. I’m of the strong belief that rules exist for a reason, and that it’s up to us individually and collectively to decide whether they deserve a little bending. For instance, there are 2-year-olds all over the damn boulder, because we all pretty much recognize the “under four” sign as the unenforced words of a liability provider, and we collectively recognize insurance companies as stopping at nothing to deny our claims and the unbridled glee of our children.
The stroller rule, however, is a good deal different. Now I’m not one for math, but a fairly basic accounting of 10,000 square feet minus 6,357 kids divided by 4,000 strollers equals THE STROLLERS WILL EAT US ALL.
Now I understand your reluctance to leave your Bugaboo outside among so many lesser strollers of questionable breeding, strollers that may try to offer your stroller a PBR or teach it to crunk. Also, were your stroller not to accessorize you, we would not know you for The Woman You Are, for that Bugaboo speaks as loudly to us as your unfortunate velour-track-suit-and-heels ensemble and the daughter who keeps falling off shit and screaming at the top of her lungs because, in your words, “She’s wearing the wrong shoes,” and those are shoes in which you dressed her and THOSE SHOES ARE UGGS.
So I’d like to offer the ittiest skoshe of advice: for future Zoomazium adventures, invest in a plastic, ghetto, lead-based double umbrella stroller that can be stowed in the far nether-reaches of the Lexus cargo area and that the other Kirkland mommies will never have to know about. Or, if like me, you refuse to continue your support of the Stroller Industrial Complex, buy a $3 padlock and slap it on a front wheel, because if there’s a zoo mom with a hacksaw and the triceps to haul my honkin’ double-jogger to the parking lot, that is a woman with FAR more motivation than I’ll ever muster and I applaud her.
Also? I’d like to recommend a little visit to, say, Bellevue Square, because girlfriend, that velour track suit is NOT doing your ass any favors. (Or, as my super-secret-boyfriend Tim Gunn would say, “It is possible to dress in a manner that is both youthful and sophisticated. Now make it work.”)