Ode to a Double Stroller

I owe my sanity to my double stroller. We had three kids, 3 and under. The oldest had ADHD and followed his nose unless it led to me. My hero had one seat with a strap, one bench and a kickplate in the back. The baby could sit in the seat, the 2-year-old on the bench with her feet in the basket and the 3-year-old standing on the kickplate with the back strap across his back. Aah. We could stand in line at the DMV with nothing but a bag of licorice and wait in line for 45 minutes. We could wait at the podiatrist's office for an hour with nothing but a bag of jelly beans and Veggie Tales recitations to occupy us. Well-child and sick-child visits at the pediatrician's were a piece of cake. By the time the baby was 3 and I was pregnant with number 4, everybody could remember to stay by me, use quiet voices, and not touch anything in the store. The double stroller limped, the handle wobbled, and the sunshade supports had broken. It was time to retire my faithful companion. I had Allen set it out by the garbage one day when I wasn't looking.