They Call Me Baby Driver

A pop-up ad for a kid’s pedal car showed up on my laptop’s homepage this morning. Apparently it’s still possible to buy new ones and after a little searching, I also found “refurbished” ones from the 1950’s. Now that I showed an interest and followed a link, my pages will be filled with ads for them. I don’t care. When I was about four, I wanted one of those so badly. I mean, really wanted one. I begged, I pleaded. “You’ll outgrow it soon.” “You won’t use it.” “It’s too expensive.” I worked on the first two arguments until I was blue in the face. My concept of money in those days was elementary and I had no way to form a solid argument about the price tag. I remember desperately wanting three things when I was a kid. Other than a cool pedal car, I longed for a a pogo stick. That didn’t materialize either. My answer for that was, when our three boys were of pogo-stick-age, to buy one ostensibly for them and fool around with it myself and hop around the front yard. I should have done that with a unicycle, the third of my fervent unfulfilled wishes. I continued to want that until about three years ago, when “you’ll fall and break something” became the mantra around here. Probably so, but phooey. I bet if I’d gotten that darn pedal car, I’d still be driving it.

Photo courtesy coolunit at Pixabay.com