I noticed that the carriages are slowly exaggerated. Perhaps it is the need to have more space for things, perhaps, the importance of competent child, maybe it's just a fashion package. Or has this syndrome SUV that all men and women, not content with more traditional measures but are constantly trying to increase the tonnage (and prowess) of objects deemed essential (Freud).
So, at this rate, to produce the machines for the handling of infants is no longer the grain, but the caterpillar. Strollers bigger and bigger spaces mean ever closer, ever more pressing family and impetuosity.
Scene, example, episode. Mothers slips and everywhere, just like you handle a jeep, pretending to go everywhere first. In library we have narrow lanes, there are cells left and right, and that customers are going, and who stop prevaricating in front of the shelves. Mother-rider, as a sidecar motorcycle of vertical s'intrufola, pushing and shouting until the road is made. Being a new mother firmly believes that the whole world is after her, that everything else has a lower amount. As during the sinking of any titanic (and there are far away). Okay so the reproduction of the species, it's good for the woman than the mother, the love is good for children but here, in this case, there is only one candidate idiocy at work.
Today the new mother was directed to the shelf of books on childcare. Building in the middle of the aisle, clinging to his SUV-stroller, grip the handles as the Red Baron a machine gun. He had already toppled two stacks of books, then picked up by a kind man, he had already hit a guy and pushed away a middle-aged woman, now unequivocally grandmother had already cried and please leave a voice arrogant and making their way to the sound of shots rigid bulkhead of his bandwagon, forcing it to stumble here and there, quiet buyers of books that floated away in small slices of the back covers.
He then confronted me on my knees, I was simply not working and I moved. Obstruction. I would kill him. To tell the truth, I did not hang him that I was passing. So he looked at me full of hate, as if I attack the dignity of his mother, his right of first refusal on anything. Take off, saying his eyes. Can not you see I have to go? Can not you see I have a future, a goal, a goal? Can not you see the result of the advance port?
The boy stared at me like I'm an ogre or a pediatrician. He was on the verge of tears one of those hysterical, minimal and artificial. Fortunately the second half was enough for me, I took standing and I am made of hand. God save the Queen. I have vacated the hall. Go, go, God bless you. The new mother ran off and parked in front of his half cookbooks, then dived into the shelf of Bibles maternity conscious and happy. I do not know what he wanted. Perhaps a good manual to pappa or going to sleep. Something that will teach, in detail, how to become a good and good mother for her child. Gilmore perfect for babies on the SUV.
paradox, hyperbole, contradictions. 
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