trike hate

Born to be wild

This is not a story about how cute he is. HE IS, okay, but this is a story about Trike Hate, as in, I HATE this trike.

That thing at the back? Is a STICK, so there's NO parental steering and the only way to steer the fucking thing is to take the steering lock off and yell "RIGHT!! LEFT!" at your hapless not-even-three year old (which, actually, he is surprisingly good at) or put the lock on and dislocate your shoulder trying to veer off in a semblance of the right direction.

Any guesses who bought it?

My mother.

OF COURSE.

When did she buy it?

When Daniel was, like, eight months old.

EXACTLY when did she buy it?

The day AFTER I thanked her for the idea but no, thanks, please don't buy it yet. Ear mark it for another year or so because a) "Ages 3+", b) no where to store the it for the next 28 months, and c) we'd know more of the features we need when Daniel can actually SIT on it without breaking his face on the unintentional dismount. Oh, there's a seatbelt, but he was EIGHT MONTHS OLD, so you know how sometimes people tie a pair of shoes together and throw them over powerlines and they hang there FOREVER? Yes. That.

But she went ahead and bought this cheapass trike, and I've had to HIDE it for THAT long in the spare room under a cashmere coat I bought from the thrift shop that would have been SUCH a bargain if I'd actually ever, you know, WORN it.

When I brought the trike out of hiding, Daniel about plotzed, and then we went for a tortuous push around the neighborhood and The Hate was born.

I've managed to push him around one (single solitary) time more and, thanks to the dlight I experienced last time, he, uh, CRIED when I suggested we go again, all "NO NO BIKE NO!" and then he SOBBED.

Awesome.

But!

It looks like I scared him into learning left from right really well THAT time because THIS time, when I removed the steering lock and pushed him around yelling directions at him like a drill sergeant, he didn't steer us into trees and retaining walls and I didn't corkscrew my arms into some kind of wicked mean anatomical origami, and I hated the whole adventure a little less the second time because I only (ONLY?!) had to struggle with the height (or lack thereof) of that ridiculous stick at the back there.

No kidding, you'd think the trike was built for one of the seven dwarfs. I mean, I'm not tall (quick aside, everyone [EVERYONE!] always goes on about "but you're SO TALL", so I have a complex about being SO TALL when I'm only 166cm SHORT - and that's on an Exceptional Posture Day. I used to work with this girl, Linda, and trained one of her clients one day, and said client was all "Linda is SO tiny, but you, you're SO TALL". Newsflash, dipshit, Linda and I are the SAME HEIGHT, but thanks a bunch for reinforcing my delusions of giantism) but you'd have to be SERIOUSLY short to not develop some kind of wicked good hump worthy of a few bell rings at Notre Dame after pushing this thing.

And yes, it IS a cute picture of my ridiculous son in his riding gear, swimming goggles and bucket NOT optional. The freak.

Rwaaar!