First of all, when I leaned down to pick up the front of the stroller, my backpack, which I only had on one shoulder, whipped around and nearly clocked the infant in the face. Nonplussed, the mother offered to carry my bag, which sort of defeated the purpose of my helping her, I thought, so I waved her off. Instead, I put the stroller back down and put my bag on both shoulders, then proceeded again. Instead of trying to grab it by the side and walk down forwards, however, I opted to grab it from the front and back down the stairs, for some reason, but then I got nervous that I’d trip and take us all with me. So, I grabbed the railing with one hand, thus causing the stroller to list crazily to one side. At this point, the mother’s face was unmistakably projecting “perhaps I should have rejected her offer.” Finally, about four steps from the bottom, I looked up at the adorable tyke, whose upper face was incongruously covered by a lemon yellow hoodie, making him or her look like the world’s smallest monk or gangsta rapper, only to be met with a projectile blurp. Nice.
Of course, the mother was very apologetic, and I assured her that I understood these things happen with little ones. Luckily, the kid was tiny, so it was no more than milky spit, but nonetheless I bid a hasty retreat, digging in my bag for a tissue pack with my one dry arm on my way through the turnstile.
I love the smell of breast milk in the morning.