One evening, shortly before you were sprouted, your papa and I and the dog were walking late in the evening along the Prado in Marseille. We had just come in on the TGV and wanted to have a pastis, and were looking for an open cafe.
At the corner of the street, we saw this cute old-fashioned baby carriage. We couldn’t tell if it was for a doll, or if it was for real babies. Someone had covered it in Converse stickers. It had this kind of funny, mix of vintage and modern, old-fashioned and punk, to it. It was just sitting out there in the middle of the road.
I half-heartedly wanted to take it, but of course it was unrealistic and anyway, it didn’t look safe enough to actually be used. Your papa and I had, the month before, decided to throw ourselves to the wind, and remove the obstructions that we had put in place to have a baby, and see if we would be blessed or not.
I hadn’t brought my bag and so I didn’t have a camera or my phone which had a camera, and I lay awake that night in our hotel, thinking about the stroller.
The next morning, I took the dog on a walk, and was delighted to see it was still there, though some hooligans had bashed it around the night before, apparently after we left. I took pictures of it.
Within a month, you were on your way.
I just think that finding that stroller was a funny sign.