Thoughts on a Child
Erin Douglass
WheelsAugust 2008
Yesterday, in spite of the 90-degree weather, Roxy and I stopped by a local playground to give the baby swings a run for their money. "Higher, mommy!" said Roxy each time her altitude dropped below my five-foot-six-inch head. "Faster!"
Suddenly, two kids zipped by on scooters. An older girl rode a metal two-wheeled Razor, the younger boy a plastic multi-colored three-wheeler.
Roxy tracked the two with the focus of a cheetah. As she swung by my head, she turned to me and said, "I need a bicycle."
Jon and I have been talking for some time about buying Rox a tricycle. So I stared down — and then up and then down — at my sweaty, matter-of-fact child and said, "Shall we go to the store and look for one?"
"Yes!" she squealed and then demanded that the swing be stopped.
Twenty minutes later we were in Target waving at our reflections in the elevator's polished ceiling. Once we were deposited onto the second floor, it took a bit of hunting, but we finally found the toddler-appropriate, wheeled toys in a back corner.
"She has long hair," said Roxy pointing to one box. I followed her finger and saw Barbie herself — a little less busty than usual, a bit more athletically dressed — staring fetchingly from the corner of a box emblazoned with a pink three-wheeler and the words "Barbie Extreme Cycle."
"She does have long hair," I said, searching the shelves for other options. The choices were these: a flimsy Dora the Explorer tricycle overburdened with accessories, a Huffy Green Machine 2 for $99, and three completely dorky Spider-Man Chopper Pedal Trikes.
I returned my gaze to the Barbie Extreme Cycle — a pastel-colored Big Wheel-knockoff. If only it wasn't Barbie-themed, I thought. Not that I think Barbie is 100% evil — although she was pretty much the anti-Christ when I was growing up in our liberal, equality-minded, mom-has-a-minor-in-P.E. household. But Barbie introduces a vision of femininity — long-haired, big-eyed, narrow-waisted; feet perpetually ready for those high-heeled shoes — that I'm not quite ready to serve up to our observant, questioning, gender-aware daughter.
I took a closer look at the cycle on the box. The sole Barbie identifiers were stickers! We could choose to participate in Barbie-hood...or not. We had plenty of stickers at home, including a few Roxy® ones, that could liven up the Extreme Cycle in no time.
I searched for the price. "Dora...Spidey...Huffy,"' I read aloud for Roxy's benefit. "Ah, here's Barbie."
It was thirty dollars.
"How about this one?" I said to Roxy as I slid the box from the shelf.
"Yes!" she shrieked and ran down the aisle in celebration.
I should add here that I am a fan of the Big Wheel®" and all Big-Wheelish toys. Like many in my generation, I grew up with a red, blue and yellow Big Wheel that was second only to books in terms of pure enjoyment power. Not only did it have a bicycle-bell-type "horn," it sported a blue plastic trunk, complete with lid, in the space behind the seat.
My best friend David and I spent hours on our Big Wheels. Our mothers would take us to local parks like Lacey in San Marino or Victory in Pasadena and set us loose with our vehicles. Sometimes we'd stick to doing loops. Other times, we'd go on trash-collection rides, filling our trunks with crushed cans, cigarette butts and candy-bar wrappers. Back at home with less room to ride, we found other uses for our Big Wheels. My favorite: flipping the thing over, spinning the front wheel and "sharpening" scissors, silverware, sticks — whatever we could get our hands on.
When Roxy and I got home, I lugged the box up the side stairs and deposited it on the deck. "Let's OPEN it!" said Roxy. I grabbed the kitchen scissors and slit through the top. "Can you help me take out the pieces?" I said, handing Rox the large front wheel. We emptied the box, spreading its contents across the deck.
Up to this point, Jon has done most of the toy and gift assembling in our home. A naturally handy guy, he likes this kind of thing, so who am I to jump between him, some tools, and instructions printed in six languages including Vietnamese?
I've watched as he's struggled with misshapen parts, searched for missing screws, and — fuming with the indignation of a man who designs products for a living — pointed out the flaws in the packaging. Occasionally, I've stepped in to press two sides together or hold up a plastic leg while he fastens away. But usually Jon tackles the job on his own.
As grateful as I am for this mechanical prowess, I sometimes feel as if my sense of self-reliance has been compromised. What if he wasn't around to assemble something? Would it just sit in the box?
Here was my opportunity to Do It Myself. Even better, here was a chance to show Rox that Mom Can, Too.
"Can you fix it?" Roxy said, holding up the handlebars.
"I can put it together," I said, nodding. "Let me get my toolbox."
Out came my dusty silver toolbox — a wedding present, ironically, from Jon. Per the cycle's instructions, I pulled out a hammer, along with a Phillip's screwdriver.
"Step one," I read to Roxy, who was busy organizing the screws on the top of her little outdoor table. I grabbed the first part — an axel — and got to work.
It was terrific fun building the Barbie Extreme Cycle. The directions, for the most part, were clear and the parts well labeled. My tools worked. Even better, my mind worked — I figured out angles, fitted together odd shapes, and diligently twisted my screwdriver.
And then: clink! We had our first mishap.
"Roxy," I said, noticing her gathering the various washers. "Please don't play with those. We need them for the big wheel."
She put down a spiked "push washer" — and it promptly fell off the table's edge and disappeared through a crack in the deck.
"Oh sh...oot." I said, staring into the tiny space.
Then Jon came home.
I'd really hoped to have the Barbie Extreme Cycle finished by the time Jon arrived. Then I'd be able to show him my handiwork and bask in the knowledge that I did it myself. Instead, when he entered the backyard he was greeted with piles of wheels, tools and packaging — and a wife sitting on the bench shaving nubs from the sides of plastic-molded parts.
He was delighted with the purchase — and appropriately saddened by the loss of the washer. After unsuccessfully locating a replacement in his parts bin, we decided I would go to Home Depot.
A trip to Home Depot! That made this a real project. I changed my shirt and kissed my two sweeties goodbye.
Our local Home Depot, stuck halfway below a freeway overpass in an industrial section of Lincoln Heights, is a bit on the shabby side. Cavernous as an airplane hangar with poorly marked aisles, it has an abused, tired feel with products behind locked gates, two security guards and picked-over shelves. Even the parking lot depresses with its rectangular, punishing speedbumps and pitted asphalt.
Plus, it's always a bit of an anthropological study going to Home Depot as a solitary female. Older men walk by with a "What's she doing here?" expression on their faces. Younger guys just stare. It probably didn't help that I was in the Lots of Tiny Things aisle looking for a 3/8-inch push washer. After ten minutes of fruitless searching, I wussed out and called Jon.
"Try the weird parts drawers," he recommended, directing me to the pull-out bins further down the aisle. But all I found were envelopes containing fewer of the same bits. I settled on the next best thing — a 3/8-inch washer with interior flat spikes — checked myself out, and drove back home 44 cents lighter.
I did accept some help from Jon in finishing up the Barbie Extreme Cycle, but it was mostly in the decal application process. "Should the Roxy sticker go on the seat?" "What about this one — should we put it over here?"
When we finished, Roxy could hardly contain herself. Circling the cycle on the tool-strewn deck, she said over and over, "Mommy did it. Daddy did it. Mommy did it."