Today Aaron, my almost-three-year-old son, and I went out for a walk. He had already gone bicycle riding with Mommy, so he didn’t want to do that again. With me, he wanted to take his sister’s toy stroller around the block. With a little naked dolly and pretend milk bottle inside. Okaay.
I’m man enough to go out with my son as he merrily pushes the dolly stroller around. Especially since it was early afternoon on a workday, and nobody I knew would be around. Right as we left the house, it turns out that my neighbor was home early from work and was doing some yard work. He gives my son a big ol’ smile. I resignedly give him a wave.
Aaron and I continue on, stopping every once in a while to make the dolly more comfortable or to feed him. Not two houses down, we were spotted by the mailman, making early rounds today. He gives us a hearty hello, too. I want to explain how it’s his sister’s stroller, but think better of it.
Aaron decided he wants to take a longer walk than usual. Great, I think. A couple of blocks away, we reach the top of a little paved hill. Aaron, bless his heart, stops to adjust the baby, then in one deft motion, pushes the stroller down the hill. As the stroller careens towards destruction, he cries out, “Oh, Baby!!”
He runs down the hill after the stroller crashes, and drags the stroller back to the top to re-enact the catastrophe again, crying after the speeding dolly and all. So that was the point of bringing the doll on the trip. For some reason, everything felt better.