A couple nights ago, my boyfriend and I put together a stroller. His sister is coming to visit next weekend and bringing his baby nephew. In order to cut down on the amount of stuff she has to lug through the airport, she asked him if he could buy a stroller and have it for her in LA. He said sure.
So, there we were, me sitting on the bed reading him the directions, him putting on the wheels with his handy dandy all-in-one tool, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“What’re you laughing at?” he asked.
“I’m laughing because I think it’s weird that we’re putting together a stroller,” I said.
“Why?” he asked. “Do you think if people saw us through the windows they would think we were having a baby?”
“Probably,” I said. “I’ve never really imagined myself putting together a stroller, but if I had, I would’ve imagined it to be with my husband, getting ready to have a baby.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” he said, busily snapping on wheels and hubcaps.
Since he no longer seemed to need my assembly assistance, I let my mind wander. Sitting there on the bed with my legs folded Indian style, I let myself imagine for a second that I was eight months pregnant with a big belly in my lap, wearing elastic-waist pants, craving ice cream and pickles and feeling so excited about that stroller and all that it meant. And I must admit, it felt pretty exciting, if a tad bit scary.
“Ok, it’s done,” he said a few minutes later, putting an end to my little daydream. “Now, get in.”
“What do you mean, get in?” I asked.
“Get in,” he said. “I want to push you around and see if it works.”
So, I did. I got in, and he pushed me around the apartment for a bit, and we laughed, and even though I know I’ll be ready for my very own bundle of joy one day, for now, I’m more than happy to be the one in the stroller.