The first time you put him in the stroller, you bent down and spent five minutes adjusting the harness.
He was so small you thought the stroller looked like a ship.

Then you got used to it.
Fold it one‑handed. Pick him up one‑handed. Pop it out of the trunk one‑handed. Click. Frame locks open.
He sits inside, tiny hands gripping the bar, babbling, little feet kicking the footrest.
You’ve pushed him through cherry‑blossom springs, shady summer streets, autumn parks carpeted with ginkgo leaves, winter snow days when he was wrapped like a marshmallow but still insisted on going out.

You don’t know how many kilometers this stroller has walked with you.
But you know every rotation of its rear wheels circled around a point called “home.”

? Baby Stroller
It’s not you pushing him. It’s the stroller carrying both of you—through growing up.

? Year One · Lie‑Flat Mode

Newborns need a flat, firm, supportive surface.
175° recline, one‑piece hardboard support—no hammock‑like sag.
When he falls asleep, you don’t have to watch nervously—the stroller holds him right.

Full‑coverage canopy, UPF50+
Sun moves? Canopy follows.
UV rays? Glare? Sudden drizzle?
Under the canopy, he doesn’t know what’s happening outside.

5‑point harness, 3‑position shoulder straps
From winter coat to summer onesie, the straps always fit just right.
You lean in to check him—he looks up at you.
That second, you know you’re needed.

? Year Two · Sit‑Up Mode

He can sit now.
Stroller backrest raised, he stares at the world with curiosity.
A dog walks by—he points. A kid on a scooter passes—he watches for minutes.
Reversible handle—face you for comfort, face the world for discovery.

Swivel front wheels, fixed rear wheels, smooth push
Park cobblestones, supermarket tile gaps, speed bumps in the neighborhood—
Shock‑absorbing springs filter the bumps; all you feel is a gentle roll.
His teether never bounces out.

One‑step dual brake
You stop on a slope—the stroller stays put.
You walk around to wipe his mouth—it waits behind you.

? Year Three · Storage Mode

He can walk now, but not far.
You still need the stroller—in case he gets tired, in case he throws a tantrum, in case the afternoon sun lulls him to sleep.

One‑hand fold, 3 seconds
Folds upright, doesn’t hog the trunk, doesn’t trip you.
You hold him with one arm, carry the stroller with the other, and still have two fingers free to swipe the keycard.
Becoming a parent means growing extra arms.

Weight ≤ 6.5kg
Not the lightest—but the perfect balance between stable and portable.
You’ve carried it up three flights of stairs in an old walk‑up. You’ve squeezed onto rush‑hour subway with it.
It never made you feel that going out with a baby is weight training.

? Three Years Later · Still Here

On his third birthday, you used it for the last time.
He insisted on walking home by himself—the stroller empty, you pushing air.
Passing the little square where you used to stroll, you suddenly felt a pang of reluctance.

Washable seat pad
Milk spit‑ups, juice spills, cookie crumbs, rain.
You wash it, dry it, fold it, store it away.
It doesn’t speak, but you know—
When the next baby comes, it’ll still be there.

? Spec Check

? Who Needs This Stroller?

• First‑time parents: You’ll read the manual twice, worry about assembling it wrong, double‑check the brake. It’s okay—it’s built for your carefulness.

• Practical second‑time parents: Big kid used it, little kid will use it—one stroller, two childhoods.

• Moms who often go out alone with baby: One hand for baby, one hand for stroller, still able to swipe the bus card—it gets you.

• Park lovers, stroller addicts, home‑bodies? Not anymore: Baby doesn’t mean your world shrinks.

• A “been‑there” gift for a sister or best friend: You walked the path; help her take fewer detours.

One last thing:

Strollers can be folded, stored, dusted, handed down.
But the miles you pushed them—those never fold away.