Possible

March 17, 2025

Greetings from Helios,

It made quite an impression, and usually drew a crowd.  It was built incredibly well, made to last.  It was complex but worked exactly as it should. What wasn’t obvious to people watching was that once it got going, its destiny was its own.  It was more than object of utility, it was an avenue into the world. 

It had brakes, which were vital, because I was usually running behind it and there were times it would seem ready to leave me behind.  It had an awning for sunny days, and a panoramic waterproof cover for when it rained, so no matter what the weather, there was never a reason to stay home. There were large bicycle wheels with sturdy tires so it could go almost anywhere.  But I’ll be honest, it seemed most fulfilled when it was flying down a paved road. 

Carson sat in front, then Sawyer, and behind him, Harrison.  I don’t remember why they were in  this order but it stayed that way for as long as the boys rode in the stroller.  They were dressed for whatever temperature, belted in the big seats, watching the world whirl by.

We used the stroller all the time, for the rudimentary things like shopping and doctor’s appointments, but mostly it was to explore.  It got the babies out of the house, an adventure for the boys and some days a respite for their mother.

We went for walks, Katherine skipping alongside, or riding her little bike, up and down our street, or through the parks nearby. But even though it was a stroller, its purpose wasn’t just for strolls.  It wanted to fly.

When the boys were born, on this day thirty-one years ago, people gathered around us to help.  They brought clothes and diapers and formula and food, even a freezer.  Some of my running friends had the idea we would need a stroller, but not just an ordinary one.  Something epic.  They gathered a group and pooled their money and presented us with three wheels of freedom.

As soon as it was safe, I took the boys out for a run.  I can’t remember if they liked it right away, but it became some of our favorite outings.  Flying along the little two-lane roads near our house, down through town, into the parks, the boys’ eyes watering, laughing and cooing at the colors and shapes whizzing by.

I loved running with them.  Once we got up to speed the trike only needed a little guidance, and I would run behind it, lightly holding the handlebar.  Sometimes it felt like I was just following my sons on their outing, just happy to have been invited.  I would talk to them, sometimes sing, as we rolled along in the morning sun.

In the first year after the boys were born, our lives evolved on a new path.  Katherine became a devoted and loyal sister.  As I write this, I am remembering how gracious and patient she was toward her brothers, even as they dropped into her life with all their noise and distraction.  Yesterday I was watching her with her own children and saw that same quiet, peaceful power.  Not everyone noticed thirty-one years ago, but Kat was raising her brothers.

My wife and I became a new kind of parent, not only because of the exhaustion and the enormous amount of daily effort, but because suddenly there were three new people to love and protect and care for.  And because we were expecting four new people.

We would be on the sidewalk with the giant stroller and a knot of people would gather. I remember Suzanne saying that it was hard for her to go out with the stroller sometimes because it always drew a crowd, and this was our family, not a tourist attraction. 

People would ask, “Are they triplets?” and Suzanne would hesitate, I watched her. For a while she would say “They are surviving quadruplets.”  It was a painful thing for her to tell, but it was honest, and it honored Alexander, the son who left us just as he joined us.  After a while it was harder to say it all, and so we kept that story for special conversations. 

I’ll admit that some of the reasons I wanted to take my sons out in the stroller were selfish.  I wanted to run, I wanted to spend time with them, for them to see what I was seeing, and this machine made it possible.  I also wanted them to feel some of my life, the running, the biking, the exploring, the adventure, which might seem ambitious from just a baby-jogger, but it felt possible.   We would roll along, stopping to wipe a nose or clean off a bug, or just to admire the world.  We all got something out of it, but perhaps I got the best deal.

After the three boys outgrew the trike we kept it for a long time, in part out of loyalty.  And then one day a friend needed it, as it happened one of those who first gave it to us, and so we waved goodbye to our three wheeled companion.  But not the memories.

It just occurred to me that we never named the stroller, which strikes me as a little funny and a little sad.  It had given us a little freedom, a lot of fun, and who knows how many beautiful impressions for those three toddlers, or what inspiration for them to go out into the world.  Perhaps we should name it ‘Possible’.

Hope this finds you rolling along,

David

Copyright © 2025 David Smith