The Christmas Trike

We got Caleb a tricycle for Christmas. When we bought it at the toy store last weekend, my eyes had welled up with tears in the checkout line just thinking about the simple beauty of that trike under the tree and the uncomplicated joy of the boy who would come downstairs to find it waiting for him.

I scurried downstairs ahead of Caleb Christmas morning so I could have the video camera ready to capture his reaction. He made a beeline for the trike, saying, “Bike, bike, bike…?” as he climbed into the seat, the twinkling Christmas tree behind him, the day’s first sun smiling into the room.

Our morning was so delightfully leisurely. Caleb would open a present and then he’d have to play with it before moving on to the next present. Jay and I drank it in, slowly sipping our coffee, knowing we wouldn’t have another Christmas morning that relaxing for, oh, probably the next fifteen years. Caleb tinkered with his new toys, talking to them, and announcing his discoveries to us: “Truck, truck, truck…?” and was content to ride the trike back and forth, back and forth from the living room to the kitchen. It wasn’t until early evening that we got a chance to take the trike for a ride outside.

By that time Jay was exhausted, so I decided to strap the baby to me in the carrier and take Caleb out for the maiden voyage. The baby has just enough head control to be placed in the carrier facing out for the first time, so I decided to give it a try and boy was I glad I did. The child laughed for the first five minutes of our walk—those first, breathy, quiet, little baby laughs. And Caleb…I could tell just by looking at the back of his head and the way he was holding his body and gripping the handle bars that he was having the time of his life. I couldn’t stop smiling.

For those of you who know where I live, let me put your mind at ease about our little bike riding expedition in the heart of the city. The trike has an attachment that allows one to essentially push the thing like a stroller and—this is important—help the child steer. So there was no risk of him careening off some curb into traffic, hitting a tree, or any number of tricycle mishaps that could turn a perfectly good Christmas day sour.

No doubt the inventor of this genius adaptation was one of the 40 gajillion parents who have thrown their backs out trying to master the elegant dance of trotting beside a trike while bent 90 degrees at the waist, one hand on their child’s back and the other on a handlebar. I could just see me, all bent over, running (more like lumbering) alongside the trike trying to push and steer at the same time, the baby getting all jostled around and me tripping on some uneven concrete and falling on Caleb or something…uh, no thank you. I don’t want to try to explain those bruises at the grocery store.

The weather was so un-Christmas-like. I had been pining for a white Christmas for weeks, but found myself soaking in the unseasonably warm evening—the kind of evening you have when the temperature’s been perfect and serene all day and the darkening blue ushers in a delightful, gentle chill. And it was so quiet—hardly anybody on the road and only a handful out walking, everyone else tucked snugly in their houses. I’ve never heard my neighborhood sound like that. It was like the neighborhood was taking in a nice, long breath and letting it out ever so slowly.

We rode up to a strip of stores with a parking lot out front that is usually packed. In fact, as we turned the corner I was shocked to see the parking lot perfectly empty. I don’t think I have ever seen it empty, ever. All the shops and restaurants were closed, holiday lights blinking happily in the windows. “Look, Buddy! The whole parking lot just for you to ride and ride and ride!” I said. And he did. He. was. so. happy.

At one point he stopped pedaling. “Stars?” he asked, his soft, round face lifted to the sky. “No, buddy there aren’t any st—“I started to say, but then I saw one—just one—in the newly dark sky. “There is a star!” I exclaimed. He pointed to it with a plump hand, beaming. We rode slowly around the parking lot singing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” together. It was the first time I’d ever heard him sing it, his tiny, shy voice dancing with the quiet, lighted night.