Be warned: escalators are the enemy.

What does “mom” mean to you? Here’s what it meant to me this weekend: Waiting for an elevator for 24.5 minutes because it’s impossible to safely take a stroller on an escalator by your lonesome at the mall. Being frustrated that your time is being wasted because you can’t take your stroller on an escalator. Briefly attempting to take said stroller on said escalator just to spite the stubborn elevator, then turning around and chickening out because of all the questionable stares you receive from strangers watching you contemplate whether or not to get on that escalator. Waiting for the same spiteful elevator for approximately 15 more minutes before the doors opened up with enough space for one mom, one baby and one oversized stroller. Wondering how many new moms have done what you just did, and how many braved that moving staircase with ease. A task that I have yet to aspire to and conquer… but will most likely never do because thinking about attempting it makes me question my own safety judgement. I guess I will be waiting for many more elevators to come. Dammit. (As for the rest of the day: Don’t even get me started about of the sad comedy of me trying to lift my carseat – seemingly made of steel – out of our new SUV-type vehicle that I’m so far incapable of parking successfully. I’ll save that for a future post!)