I spent six weeks researching strollers. Six weeks of Reddit threads, YouTube comparison videos, and spreadsheets comparing wheel sizes, suspension systems, and fold mechanisms. I read every “best stroller of 2025” list. I joined Facebook groups where parents argued about cup holders and brake systems like it was geopolitics. By the time Owen was three months old, I had made my choice: the one. The stroller that would carry him through toddlerhood with grace, reliability, and zero regrets.
It arrived in a massive box. I assembled it with the kind of focus I usually reserve for project kickoffs. I checked every bolt twice. I watched the unboxing video one more time, just to be sure. And then we took it for its first walk.
The front-right wheel wobbles.
Not a lot. You wouldn’t notice it from ten feet away. But when you’re pushing it—when you’re the one whose hands are on the handlebar, feeling every bump and sway—you notice. There’s a little shimmy. A slight, rhythmic imperfection. The wheel doesn’t roll wrong; it just doesn’t roll perfect.
My first instinct was to fix it. I Googled “stroller wheel wobble,” found a forum thread, and learned that some units from this batch had a known issue. The company would send a replacement wheel. Free. No hassle. I could have it in five days.
I didn’t order it.
I’m not sure when the shift happened. Maybe it was the third or fourth walk, when Owen was dozing in the stroller and I was just pushing, one foot in front of the other, and I realized the wobble had become part of the rhythm. Maybe it was when I caught myself thinking about all the other things I could obsess over—sleep schedules, solid food introductions, whether we were doing enough tummy time—and decided I didn’t want to add “stroller wheel” to that list. Or maybe it was simpler: I just got tired of trying to make everything perfect.
Because here’s the thing about parenting that nobody really tells you: you can research the best way to do everything and still end up wobbling. You can read the books, follow the experts, buy the gear that topped every list—and something will still be slightly off. A wheel will wobble. A nap will go wrong. You’ll lose your patience at 6:47 PM on a Tuesday when the pasta is boiling over and Owen is crying and you haven’t slept more than four hours in a row for a week. You’ll say something you wish you hadn’t. You’ll forget the sunscreen. You’ll be human.
I used to think that being a good dad meant getting it right. Making the right choices. Having the right gear. Doing the right things at the right times. And there’s value in that—in caring, in trying, in showing up. But somewhere along the way, I started to confuse “trying” with “perfecting.” And perfection, it turns out, is a moving target that doesn’t exist.
The wobble taught me something. It taught me that acceptance isn’t giving up. It’s not laziness or indifference. It’s a kind of clarity. You look at the thing that isn’t quite right—the wheel, the moment you snapped, the day that went sideways—and you decide: this doesn’t have to be fixed for us to be okay. Owen doesn’t care that the wheel wobbles. He cares that we’re outside, that the air is on his face, that his dad is there. The wobble is my problem. And I’m choosing to let it go.
I’m 32. I’ve been an IT project manager for eight years. I’m good at optimizing systems, at finding the right solution, at making things work. But parenthood isn’t a system. Owen isn’t a project. He’s a person—a 14-month-old person who is learning to walk and say “dada” and throw his food on the floor with impressive accuracy. He doesn’t need a dad who has everything figured out. He needs a dad who shows up, who tries, and who doesn’t fall apart when things wobble.
So we keep walking. The stroller rolls. The wheel shimmies. Owen naps or babbles or points at dogs. And I push, one foot in front of the other, and I let the wobble be part of the ride. It’s not perfect. But it’s ours. And that’s enough.