On a recent Tuesday morning, I took a walk around my neighborhood. At the corner of Park and Robinson, I saw a woman pushing a KinderVan down the sidewalk. 鈥淜inderVan鈥� 鈥� a concept previously unknown to me 鈥� was solidified with the help of a Google search I conducted afterward, as though confirming the species of an animal I had spotted in the wild. My search yielded a picture and a description: a daycare stroller, a 鈥渧ersatile vehicle鈥� that seats four to six passengers from 6 to 36 months of age, 鈥渢he most comfortable ride鈥� on the market.
The KinderVan I saw contained six seats, each occupied by a passenger who appeared to be between 10 and 20 months old. I watched as the stroller鈥檚 pusher 鈥� a thin woman who couldn鈥檛 have been older than 22 鈥� cocked the contraption over a curb as though wrangling a utility dolly. She looked as though she could have been navigating a shipment of floor tiles from a loading dock to a department store鈥檚 backroom.
Unlike tiles, her load of six children was likely the most precious cargo she would ever push. I imagined the anxieties, hopes, wishes, dreams, concerns and love encircling each life. Photographs of these children surely sprinkled parents鈥� desks throughout the city and illuminated relatives鈥� phones in faraway states.
Yet here these children were extracted from homes in which they always play starring roles and assembled neatly alongside other lives. Each child sat upright in an individual seat. A crisp orderliness governed the operation.
I couldn鈥檛 help but compare the KinderVan to its older cousin, the 鈥淧edal Pub鈥� or 鈥淏ar Bike.鈥� Whatever its local iteration, such a boisterous multi-person-powered bike is a party on wheels. Bachelorette/bachelor parties or clamorous tourists fill its seats. With a local brewery advertisement pasted to its backside, the vehicle careens through town emitting guffaws, sloshed brews and open-air giddiness.
In contrast, the KinderVan conveyed a tranquil sobriety. The morning was misty, and each child wore a rain jacket. I imagined the day care staff, five minutes prior to the expedition, inserting the toddlers鈥� soft arms, one by one, into stiff sleeves. Children this age ordinarily would be bumping into one another 鈥� crying, falling, reaching, handling foreign objects. Yet here each child was strapped in: self-contained, observant.
Pastel colored hoods 鈥� salmon, lilac, brown, gray, rain, mint 鈥� graced the toddlers鈥� heads. In their straight rows, the children appeared like little monks in their pews. As they were bumped over the curb, they bobbed in unison, bowing their heads, saying their silent inscrutable toddler prayers. They had nothing to pray about 鈥� certainly nothing to confess 鈥� but instead contented themselves by gazing at the passing scenery.
These six had scored a field trip beyond their daycare center鈥檚 cloistered walls. 10 a.m. must have been the hour allotted for outdoor venturing. Witnessing this miniature mobile assembly, I felt invited to join them in the morning鈥檚 contemplation.
Despite their decorum, under their jackets, I sensed a hidden mirth. The toddlers鈥� colorful domed heads evoked the image of a half-dozen Easter eggs being transported across town. What density of new life! I marveled at the sight. I crested in its wake: a KinderVan gliding down my neighborhood sidewalk on a Tuesday morning 鈥� a sure sign, if ever I鈥檝e seen one, of spring.
