My Daughter Lainey is four years old and I love her. We were in the garage inflating her kickball when she noticed her old tricycle in pieces on the floor.
“Oh, fix my trike, Dad!” she pleaded.
I dragged it out from under some garage junk, grabbed my tools and fastened the handlebars to the front wheel. Then I removed the red bar that angled off its rear like a stroller handle. She needed that leash last fall, not anymore.
“Hang on, Lainey. Almost done.”
I nodded the OK and the kid shot down our driveway.
“Use your feet to stop!” I yelled.
Her shoes skidded across the pavement, she turned, and was soon back at my feet, all smiles.
“I’m fast, huh?” she beamed. I nodded.
Couple times around the block, and the kid was tired, slept well, and grew that night.
Sunday Lainey rode her trike to Mass. Ave. to watch Arlington’s Patriot Day Parade. Lainey had trouble riding over bumps. Her knees grazed the handlebars. After the fire trucks, Shriners, jazz bands, and Minutemen— and Lainey picking up two lollipops, a Starburst and a rusty screw— we headed to Toys "R" Us.
“We’re not buying anything today, Lainey,” my wife warned. “Just trying them on.”
We found the bikes and I lifted a 16-incher off the display.
“I can’t touch, Dad,” Lainey said pointing her toes toward the linoleum. The 12-inch looked small, I grabbed the 14, and Lainey sat easily.
“These are hand brakes,” I pointed. “No more feet-stopping.”
“I like this one,” Lainey grinned and bolted down the aisle and bumped into some signage, her training wheels rattling along.
“Is there room to grow?” My wife whispered.
“Could raise the seat and handlebars a bit,” I answered. “Don’t want it too big … too scary… too heavy when it falls.”
We nodded in agreement.
“Time to go Lainey.”
“What about my bike?”
“We’re not buying, remember?” My wife said.
“The Easter Bunny was just wondering what size you might need,” I added. “I’ll send him an e-mail.”
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