Hysterical Urban Mommies and the Maclarens They Use as Weapons

You see them every morning at a quarter to nine, rushing out of the maw of their co-op lobbies, the hundreds and hundreds of highly-strung, upwardly mobile, nouveau mommies on their way to preschool/play date/music class. Walking at breakneck speeds, they ram their strollers down the sidewalks of Manhattan with little regard for any pedestrian traffic other than themselves and their precious children. Please tell me when it became acceptable for baby carriages to double as method of transportation and urban assault vehicle.

I’ll admit, throughout its five diverse boroughs, New York City affords one no shortage of manners in which one could be incapacitated: stray bullets, exploding manhole covers, buildings whose façades suddenly crumble to the ground. Not to mention any assortment of motor vehicles, be they taxi, bus, Town Car, or Chinese delivery messenger. But lately I’ve noticed that there’s a whole new way of potentially starting your day with a trip to the emergency room. Achilles tendon injury, thy name is Maclaren.

The Maclaren distinguishes itself from a typical stroller in its ruggedly functional exterior (4x4 wheels for off-roading through Central Park, presumably), and dour gray color (which goes far to endorse its Scottish heritage). Think of it as the BMW of strollers: high in price and status, delivering an all-around driving experience unparalleled by a $29.99 Cosco special. To all this it offers an added bonus: its oversized wheels are perfectly positioned to mar the heels of whoever gets in its way. No wonder they’re so popular on the Upper East Side. Nothing says entitlement like an astronomically overpriced baby buggy!

And so, with a maniacal gleam in their eye, the thirtysomething women who have recently quit their jobs as high-powered whatevers to become full-time mothers propel their genius progeny through the streets of Manhattan and Park Slope on their way to an endless loop of ineffectual Baby Einstein classes and Lord of the Fliesesque play dates. If they weren’t so refined, you would hear them shouting “Out of my way, bitch! My baby is late for his next appointment!”

Oddly enough, the baby carriage plow-down is not limited to those occupying children. Often I’ll see women pushing a phantom-baby with the same ferocity as if their offspring were with them. Why? Do these women get a power surge from propelling a stroller that they just can’t get from walking alone? Vexing, indeed, but even moreso, it appears that the phenomenon is limited only to females. Men, with their special “daddy push” (standing beside the coach and driving one-handed) may walk at a similarly breakneck pace, but unlike their baby-mommies, daddies are respectful enough to swerve the kid out of the way of pedestrian traffic.

It appears that speeding babies are part of a larger, new philosophy of child-rearing which I like to call “Hysterical Parenting”. From what I can glean, two of its main tenants include enrolling the child into every extracurricular activity under the sun, and chattering away at the child non-stop. By “chattering away” I do not mean reading the Great Books at bedtime, but developing into the human equivalent of a Pop-Up Video. To wit:

"Look at the doggie, Ethan. That's a Weimarauner. Can you say Weimarauner? {ed: I can't even say Weimarauner}. It's a breed originating from Germany. They're hunting dogs, and very good at following commands. They're also the frequent subject of photographer William Wegman. William Wegman and his Weimarauners. Isn't that funny? All those Ws, that's called an alliteration. Can you say alliteration?"

Honestly, I moved out of the suburbs to avoid the nouveau mommy set. What did I do in a former life to deserve being surrounded by them every time I step outside?

After suffering through more than my share of ankle bites, I have concocted an elaborate fantasy wherein I push the stroller into 3rd Avenue at the height of rush hour. With the mommy in it. The baby and I watch and wave from the sidewalk. “Watch out for the Fung Wah bus! Ooh! That looked like it hurt!”

In an effort to avoid getting thrown in jail for actually following through with this fantasy, I offer a little advice to all you self-described “hip” mommies out there: when walking down the street, try to make like cars drive and stay on the right side of the street and for godsakes, stop bullying we lowly pedestrians with your rabid Maclarens.