The Curse of the Invisible Stroller

There's a phenomenon that plays out between people with kids and those without, and I fell victim to it again today: the invisibility factor of a giant stroller complete with infant car seat, Toddler, diaper bag and often-haggard Mom.

Most recently: I was at the local rec centre, via the library, in order to weigh Big-A and see how close he is to the 40lb weight restriction for car seats vs. booster seats, and thought I would be all clever and use the digital scale in the exercise room at Confederation Park. Never mind feeling totally out of place amongst the lycra-clad skinny bodies and decidedly un-child-friendly atmosphere, I soldiered through and made it with Toddler, Newborn and Stroller to the scales.

I soon became aware of an intense middle-aged spandex-clad skinny body breathing down my neck and not-so-subtly tapping her foot as if to say: "Can you please get on with it - I have another five miles to run".(You can appreciate trying to get a wriggling two-and-three-quarters to stand still long enough to get a digital read)

We got weighed, and were trying to navigate Stroller, Toddler, and Newborn, when Spandex pushed past me, hopped over the front wheel of the stroller and leapt up on the scale. Really? Did she have to get weighed that fast?

This is not a one-off.

I see it all the time - people pushing me or the kids and virtually hurdling the front of the stroller as if they had to get to our mutual destination first so as to be spared the pain and volume of dealing with the pace of a family.

Or those that walk towards you, never looking down, virtually running into the stroller and/or child, and only at the very last second finally deigning to notice you?

Now, I own a BOB. These are not small strollers. There is nothing petite or subtle about them. Their tires have a 35PSI rating and better shock absorbency than most old cars. How anyone could possibly miss them is beyond me.

And yet, the Stroller Blindness continues.