The Stroller

When my son was born, I had a fancy stroller waiting for him for our big outings in the city. It was reasonably sized, not a behemoth, but not one of those dainty little umbrella strollers either. It had a nice padded seat, full recline, a generous sunshade, even shocks. And it carried him well for many months.

But as he grew older and heavier, it grew a little much for me to be lugging up subway stairs. And it was a little tough to maneuver through those tiny NYC stores. So Chloe, our resident stroller expert, found me a great deal on a beautiful stroller on ebay. And when Max was about 10 months old, I folded up that first stroller for the last time.

It sat in the foyer of our apartment forever, collecting dust. I would pass it each time I entered or left the apartment, and knew that logically, it was time for me to sell it or give it away. But I just couldn’t. Not for sentimental reasons, though. I wish it was only that. It was fear that made me hold on to that stroller, a fear that is a part of my life and a part of who I am as a mom, and that doesn’t seem to be going away.

On September 11, 2001, I was on the subway on my way to work when the planes hit the towers. I saw the smoke from the elevated track in Queens before we went underground into Manhattan. I figure we were probably one of the last subways in, because a lot of announcements and confusion was happening on my ride. I just figured it was the regular subway delay problems, because you can never understand those announcements anyway! But when I came above ground in SoHo (NYC neighborhood about 20 blocks up from the towers) there were people walking north up the streets, away from the area. And when I got into my office, I could see from my desk through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows the towers on fire. I watched them collapse from my office and waited there for many hours, wondering if I should try to get home or not. When I finally left, I walked and managed to get a subway and bus home, and then spent the next two days on my couch, crying and imagining how I would get out of the city if I needed to – what I would take, where I would walk to. I’m talking about imagining myself alone, hiking for hundreds of miles, sleeping in the bushes on the side of the road at night. I was imagining that anarchy was imminent, and I needed to know that I had a plan to save myself. For months afterward, I’d find myself in random places – a theatre during a play, at the grocery store, in church – wondering how someone would let us know it had happened in this situation. Would someone come onstage and say something? Would they come over the loudspeaker in the grocery store? Broadcast CNN on the closed-circuit security TVs?

I didn’t talk with many people about my fears, because I knew they’d think I was nuts. I couldn’t really talk to my husband about them, he hadn’t been in NYC and didn’t really understand what I had gone through. And I even belittled my own experience – sure, I had watched it all through my office window, but I hadn’t actually been in the buildings, etc. - other people had been through worse. As time passed and life continued, I managed to release some of these daily thoughts and return myself to “normal”.

In August of 2003, I went in to show off my 6-week-old son at my office in SoHo. My husband had decided to come in with me, so we didn’t take the stroller, just the Bjorn that DH would carry Max in on the subway. DH went to do some shopping while I went to show off my new little man. And as we were finishing up our visit, the power went out. Yep, it was the big east-coast blackout of 2003. Now one of the many blessings that occurred during this experience is that I was able to get a call through to my parents very early on (a lot of phone systems were out because of the power) and they reassured me that it wasn’t terrorism, so at least I wasn’t worried about that. But I did have to find my husband and walk the many miles home in the August heat and humidity with a 6-week old. One of the memories I will never forget is sitting in the middle of the sidewalk on the Queens side of the 59th St. Bridge, breastfeeding Max while the sunset disappeared and people swarmed by us.

So back to that stroller. Yes, as time had passed I had gotten over many of my daily obsessions and fears, but they weren’t gone for good. I still had those visions of me, alone, hiking out of NYC to escape whatever evil was on its way, and suddenly I had a small helpless infant that I had to take care of. That stroller, though too bulky and heavy for the subways, was for me a life support system for my little man. He could ride in it, sleep in it. I could carry a much heavier load in it. The wheels were larger and more rugged, ready to take on the task of the grand hike. And so even though the stroller was never used, it was my escape plan, my safety net.

So why am I writing this now? Well, first of all, the stroller is still sitting in my new garage here in Vermont. I still can’t get rid of it. Secondly, I was reminded of my fears when I got Max’s enrollment packet for preschool last week. It included all kinds of forms and information, but the one that drew my attention was the emergency plan. Here was a 4 level plan that included multiple evacuation scenarios (if they had to leave the building, the immediate area, the town, the region, etc.) and contact information for a whole host of people. And I got that same sick feeling in my gut and found myself crying in my kitchen reading it. I started wondering if they had enough food and water stored at the school, if they really understood that THIS COULD HAPPEN. I could hear a little hysterical voice in my head talking the crazy talk at the next parent board meeting, knowing that no one there would understand why I was such a loon when it came to this.

My hope is that I can use this experience for good. That I can take the fear that I have and ignore the parts that bring on the crazy talk, and focus on the parts that make me plan. That I can have my food storage, my evacuation plan, a family contact plan, etc. That I can do that without instilling a fear in my children. I think I can do it. I hope I can do it.