As my father's daughter, I was raised in a household of Gear. My parents' garage ceiling and walls are covered with various tributes to gear-sports: kayaks, windsurfing equipment, numerous bikes, the obligatory power tool collection, and a canoe. Not to mention the gardening equipment, but that belongs to my mother. Enter the kitchen, and her domain is also gear-infested: numerous cooking pots, springform pans, whisks, spatulas, cake pans, cooking torches, and the absolutely necessary microplane grater (no cook can do without one).
Brandon, however, if he was raised in anything close to a household needing Gear, never inherited that propensity. At the commencement of our marriage, I brought a car, a computer, at least five boxes of kitchen equipment, sewing odds and ends, three boxes of painting, stained-glass, drawing, basketweaving, and bookmaking supplies, a chair, a lamp, a small collection of custom-framed artwork, a stereo system, and various other small items. Brandon brought Babe (on video, and we have no VCR), some clothes, and three or four boxes of books.
Being a farsighted person and liking to plan for the future, I have recently begun planning for the arrival of Sophia. As we own a crib, clothes, a carseat, and the diapers can be bought closer to her arrival, that only left one thing: a stroller. When Kathleen made her appearance, Brandon and I had our first discussion about strollers. He balked at the necessity of two strollers (one for running and one for other places), to which I finally appealed to experience by asking how many strollers his mother had. To which he replied, "None, where would she have used a stroller?" I suppose there aren't many sidewalks through cow pastures in Missouri.
So when the purchase of a third stroller was made yesterday, Brandon did what has never been done before in our marriage: he issued an official ban. No more strollers. Ever.