The Real Rubber Baby Buggy Bumper Meaning (And Why We Care)

Sarah
2026-04-25T11:32:23+02:00

When Leo was about two and a half, his vocabulary basically consisted of "no," "dog," and this aggressive grunting noise that meant he wanted more goldfish crackers. I was obviously losing my mind about it.

So I'm standing in the kitchen at, like, 7 AM on a Tuesday, wearing these awful gray sweatpants that have a permanent yogurt stain on the left thigh, drinking coffee that went cold an hour ago. I texted three different people about his speech and got three completely completely different pieces of advice within ten minutes.

My mother texted back immediately: "You need to buy those black and white flashcards and drill him for thirty minutes a day, I read an article."

My neighbor shouted over the fence while I was letting the dog out: "Boys are just lazy! My nephew didn't talk until he was four and now he's an accountant, don't worry about it."

And my friend Sarah, who's actually a speech pathologist, texted me this absolute nonsense: "Just make it a game. Get him to say weird tongue twisters with hard consonants. Like that old rubber baby buggy bumper thing. Do it in the bathtub."

Wait, what? I stared at my phone. A rubber baby buggy bumper? I hadn't heard that phrase since I watched some 90s movie as a kid. And honestly, it sent me down this ridiculous rabbit hole trying to figure out if it was just a vocal warm-up for theater kids or an actual, physical thing that I was supposed to own. Because when you're an anxious parent running on four hours of sleep, you absolutely will spend an hour Googling a tongue twister instead of just folding the laundry.

The mouth gymnastics situation

I ended up asking our pediatrician about the whole speech therapy angle at Leo's next checkup. She's this wonderfully exhausted woman who always has pen marks on her lab coat and I swear she drinks more coffee than I do. I felt so stupid even bringing it up.

She basically laughed and told me that, yeah, pediatric speech therapists actually love those old repetitive phrases. Something about how the "b" and "p" sounds force your kid to use their lips in a very specific way. Bilabial sounds? I think that's what she called them, though I'm probably butchering the actual science of it. But her point was that when a toddler tries to rapidly say a bunch of heavy consonant words in a row, they're basically doing CrossFit for their mouth muscles.

You can't just tell a two-year-old to enunciate, right? They'll just look at you like you're an idiot and throw a rogue Cheerio at your forehead. But if you make it a game—if you sit on the bathroom floor while they're splashing water everywhere and challenge them to say something silly really fast—they'll try it. Leo thought it was the funniest thing in the world to spit out the "b" sounds. He sounded like a sputtering boat motor.

Anyway, the point is that it actually worked to get him to practice moving his mouth differently, even if he sounded entirely unhinged doing it.

The day Maya ate the stroller

But here's the funniest part about all of this. While the phrase is mostly just a speech trick now, a rubber bumper for a baby buggy is an actual, physical object. A baby buggy is literally just what our grandparents called a stroller. And the bumper? It's that bar that goes straight across the front of the seat.

I didn't even think about the literal translation of the phrase until Maya, my youngest, turned into a literal beaver at eight months old.

We had this ridiculously expensive stroller that my husband Dave insisted we needed because it had "all-terrain suspension" or whatever, as if we were off-roading to Target. The bumper bar across the front was covered in this soft, black EVA foam. It was supposed to be ergonomic so the baby could hold onto it.

Well, we're walking through the park one afternoon. It's perfectly nice out, I'm seriously feeling somewhat put together, and I look down into the stroller.

Maya has her mouth completely wrapped around the bumper bar.

She isn't just resting her face on it. She is gnawing on it. Like a feral animal trying to chew her way out of a trap. And before I could even stop the stroller, she pulled back and I saw this tiny, perfectly Maya-toothed chunk missing from the black foam. She swallowed it. My kid ate the stroller.

I completely panicked. I called poison control from a park bench while Dave was frantically Googling "is stroller foam toxic" on his phone. The poison control operator, who has definitely dealt with much worse, just sighed and told me she would be fine, it would pass, just don't let her eat the rest of the buggy.

So, yeah. Bumper bars. They're a real thing, and babies absolutely love to destroy them.

How to stop your kid from eating the stroller

After the foam incident, I realized I had to cover that bar or distract her from it entirely. You can buy these zip-up covers for them, but honestly, they get covered in drool and crusty milk and you've to wash them constantly anyway.

What genuinely worked was attaching things to the bar so she'd chew on those instead of the expensive foam. There are a few things that really survive this phase.

Pacifier clips: Not for pacifiers, but to tether actual chew toys to the bar so they don't throw them into the mud every four seconds.

Dedicated silicone teethers: These are a lifesaver. You need something completely indestructible.

Soft books: The crinkly kind that have the little plastic rings attached to them.

My absolute favorite thing to clip onto the stroller bar was this Sushi Roll Teether. Listen, I don't usually care about how baby stuff looks because my house is already a chaotic mess of primary colors, but this thing is genuinely hilarious. It's shaped like a little piece of nigiri sushi. It has this little kawaii face on it that Maya was obsessed with.

I'd basically loop a toy strap around the stroller bumper and hook the sushi teether to it. Because it's food-grade silicone, it's dense enough that she could bite down on it as hard as she wanted and it wouldn't break apart like the foam did. Plus, when we got home, I'd just rip it off the clip and throw it in the top rack of the dishwasher. It survived basically an entire year of her trying to destroy it, and we still have it somewhere in the bottom of a toy bin.

Realistic expectations for beautiful things

Since we're talking about toys and gear and the things we buy for our kids, I've to be completely honest about the aesthetic wooden toy trend.

I fall for it every time. Before Maya was born, I convinced myself that I was going to be one of those minimalist mothers. The ones whose nurseries look like a Scandinavian forest. No loud plastic, no flashing lights.

I got this Wooden Baby Gym Animals Set. And honestly? It's objectively gorgeous. It has this little wooden elephant and a bird hanging from it, and it feels so smooth and nice in your hands. It looks incredibly chic sitting in the middle of a living room rug.

But here's the reality of babies: they're chaotic. Maya would lie under that beautiful, natural wooden gym and stare at the little elephant peacefully for about exactly ten minutes. It was a glorious ten minutes where I could drink my coffee hot. But then she would roll over and desperately try to crawl toward a crumpled up piece of Amazon packaging tape on the floor. Or Dave's dirty shoe.

The wooden gym is a really lovely, calming thing to have for those early months before they get mobile. It doesn't overstimulate them. But don't expect it to magically make your kid ignore the loud, obnoxious world around them. It's just a really nice piece of gear for a very specific window of time. Really, when she got older, I took the wooden rings off the gym and tied them to the stroller buggy bumper. She liked banging them against the frame to make noise, which was incredibly annoying for me, but it kept her happy in the checkout line at the grocery store.

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Bringing the rubber back in

The funny thing about the whole phrase is that the rubber part is really what you want with baby stuff. Soft, flexible, chewable.

When Leo got older, we moved away from the silicone teethers and started getting into blocks. But if you've ever stepped on a hard plastic building block in your bare feet at 2 AM on your way to the bathroom, you know that's a level of hell I wouldn't wish on anyone.

I ended up finding these Gentle Baby Building Block Sets that are literally made of soft rubber. They're squishy. You can step on them and your foot doesn't get impaled. They have these little numbers and animals embossed on the sides.

Leo loved them because he could throw them across the living room and they would bounce off the walls without denting the drywall. I loved them because I could literally throw them in the bathtub with him. They float. And since he was still in his speech therapy phase, we would sit in the bathroom, stack the rubber blocks on the edge of the tub, and I'd make him say his "b" sounds every time he knocked one into the water.

Rubber block. Boom. Splash.

It's so weird how parenting comes full circle like that. You start out stressing over some random phrase your friend texted you, and three years later you're sitting on a bath mat surrounded by floating rubber blocks, just trying to get your kid to enunciate.

So the next time someone throws a weird piece of advice at you, or tells you your kid should be reciting Shakespeare by age two, just ignore them. Get some coffee. Let your kid chew on a silicone sushi roll. It's all going to be fine.

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Some messy questions I get asked about all of this

Is the rubber baby buggy bumper phrase really used in real speech therapy?

Yeah, apparently it really is! My pediatrician said speech language pathologists use it because it's packed with bilabial consonants (the B and P sounds where your lips smack together). It forces a toddler to really over-articulate and work those mouth muscles. I felt like an idiot saying it in the bathtub with Leo, but it genuinely made him focus on how his lips were moving instead of just grunting at me.

Do modern strollers still have bumpers?

They do, but we just call them bumper bars or belly bars now. It's that bar that clicks horizontally across the seat. They're not meant to keep your kid from falling out—that's what the harness is for, please buckle your kids—but they give the baby something to hold onto. And unfortunately, something to bite.

Is the foam on a stroller bar toxic if my kid eats it?

Oh god, the panic I felt when Maya ate the Uppababy foam. Most modern high-end strollers use non-toxic EVA foam, so if your kid swallows a tiny piece, poison control will usually tell you it'll just pass through their system. But you absolutely don't want them making a meal out of it. If your kid is a biter, get a leather cover for it or strap a silicone teether over the area they like to chew.

How do I clean a silicone teether after it's been dragging on the floor?

The best part about food-grade silicone is that you can essentially boil it. When the sushi teether would inevitably end up on the floor of a public restroom (my actual nightmare), I'd just bring it home, wash it with dish soap, and throw it on the top rack of the dishwasher on the sanitize cycle. You can't do that with the older rubber stuff because it breaks down, but silicone is virtually indestructible.

Are wooden toys genuinely better or just a trend?

Look, I love the way they look. They don't require batteries, they don't sing that awful electronic song that gets stuck in your head for days, and they're beautiful. But they're heavy. If your kid is prone to throwing things at your head, a wooden block hurts. I think a mix is best—a beautiful wooden play gym for when they're tiny and just looking at things, and soft rubber blocks for when they become chaotic toddlers who throw everything.