Having our son’s family over for a rescheduled Mother’s Day dinner yesterday included a spin around the block for our grandchildren in a race car. Well, it really was neither a “car” and it certainly was not a “race”. Two Christmases ago, their oldest, now almost five years old, got a Hot Wheels car the kids could sit in. It moved from their living room after the holiday into the garage, and I only recalled it yesterday when we were asked if we would keep it at our house. (We are helping them de-clutter.) Now that Zander is age-ready and adventurous enough, under strict supervision, his dad put a battery in it so he might drive it around our much-safer neighborhood street.
Not to be left out of anything Zander might enjoy, his sister fussed till she sat in the passenger seat. As part of the pit crew and fan, it was fairly easy to keep up with them. The car’s top speed is brisk-walk. With dad walking a few yards in front, Gramma and Momma a few yards behind and me at the side, we all were Crew Chief.
“More to the right!”
“Go more to this side!”
“Stop now so we can let the car pass!”
“Turn AWAY from the (parked) car!”
For the next circle of the block, his sister, almost 2, demanded to accompany her brother. She wanted to drive, but her feet couldn’t reach the pedal. She waved her arm as though giving driving directions. As the toy approach our driveway for the third time, the battery was almost spent. We retrieved the kids, and Daddy picked up the car, putting in our garage. Writing this the next morning, reminds me to go take the battery off the charger.
Our neighborhood has four or five children who will be of driving age in the next few years. As I recall teaching our own family to drive, and this amusing evening with our grandchildren, I am grateful that the plastic-wheeled race car in my garage is not Indy -ready.