This morning, Helena and I hung out at the playground, then went to feed the ducks.
We perched ourselves up on the rock. I left the stroller on the sidewalk.
Only I forgot to put the brakes on.
And it was kind of windy.
I am such an idiot.
We watched the stroller roll in slow motion as some malicious prankster ghost tipped it over the edge, into the lake. That's what I get for choosing the 11-pound model.
I was running for it before its hitting the water was an inevitability, but not fast enough. I yanked it out by its back wheel. Helena was crying, stranded on the rock. Helena's jacket, which had been slung over the handle, was drifting away. I debated walking in after it — it's not even 3-feet deep — before realizing I may as well try using the already soaking wet stroller as a grappling hook.
Why am I even telling you this?
I'm certain people were pointing and laughing.
Of course Helena at this point was much too tired to walk home, so I carried her. The stroller I pushed, and I guarantee it weighs significantly more than 11 pounds when sopping.
The stroller had needed a good hosing down anyway, but I would've planned our day differently.