Ode to a Stroller

   With the excitement of my first Stroller Fit! Class this week comes a flood of memories, three and a half years ago, to my own stroller jogging experiences. I remember running with my daughter. Correction, starting running. I wasn't a runner before hand, and my flaming red face, haggard breathing, and perpetually angry expression (deep concentration makes me look murderous) pretty much gave me away. Starting running is hard, but throw in a new baby and it's a constant stream of insecurities. Here's an example of my thoughts in any two minute section of a run:
 (1) am I doing this right?
(2) omg, did that bump I went over just cause her brain damage?
(3) do they make sports bras with leak protection?
(4) I know that bump caused brain damage (stop and check sleeping baby)
(5) even if they did make that bra, I'd have to sell a kid to afford it, and I only have this one.
(6) ahh crap, baby belly escaped, I think everyone saw it. Way to be sexy, Hallie. (That's me)
As ridiculous as it felt, I was pretty used to swallowing my pride by this point. Ask any woman whose had a kid, she'll fill you in. So every morning I'd roll my thighs into my too-tight bicycle shorts (mama needs friction-protection!) and a nursing tank (even though we'd switched to formula) and shoulder us out the door.
  As she grew older, my little girl began testing my agility. I'd be jogging along, lost in my headphones, huffing and puffing, then suddenly something would go whizzing out of the corner of my eye. A pacifier. Whoooo! Ninja caught that. Start up again. Whizzing pacifier. Slam on the brakes, pop paci into my mouth to remove germs (ancient mommy trick, don't knock it), sigh, start again. I'd get ten feet, get in the zone,  as per instruction losing my mommy-ness to the sound of Eminem, when whiiizzzz! Agh! So I began anchoring the paci to the stroller. Hah, out smarted that baby. At least until all her snack cups, blankets, and toys began meeting the same fate. Nothing throws off your game like a knit baby blanket caught up around the back tire.
   Before long, my jogging stroller resembled a cross between a cyborg and a bouncer from all the  gadgets anchored with colored, plastic links and ropes. But it worked! No more flying life lines. The day of my first race came up, and I ran it with my daughter in her stroller. Ten miles! I felt like a  million dollars! Like superwoman with a baby! Oh, if "Roar!" had been around, I'd be banging my chest and belting it! I was the biggest bad-ass I'd ever known! You feel me?  Half way through, I saw a stroller dad who had been booking, stopped. He was feeding his baby a bottle, anxiously watching the other runners as they tore up the hill ahead. My heart went out to him, because I knew he wanted to race. Then I desperately willed my daughter to  hold it together and picked up my pace so I wouldn't meet the same fate! I finished that race, in my  too-tight bike shorts and nursing tank, gave my daughter my finish-line banana, and felt anchored to my daughter in our shared victory. No one could take that from us, we had done it together.
   What's your story with your stroller? If you could provide one piece of wisdom for a stroller mom or dad, what would it be? Or even better, what's the most embarrassing thing you've had happen as a stroller-cizer? (No, I don't mean "cider", autocorrect. That makes no sense. Sheesh, you should know my made up words, crappy technology.) This blog, after all, is about laughing at, I mean 'with' each other. ;)