Like Father, Like Daughter

Sarah is obsessed with tricycles, ride-on cars, anything that she can propel. They have a large assortment of these things at her daycare which is great, because it saves me from having to find a place to store all of that stuff. (She has a single red tricycle at home.)

Often when I pick her up from daycare, if she isn't in the sandbox cramming sand in her ears, she's riding around on one of the little vehicles. Sometimes, she'll even sucker me into pushing her around the playground. She hops on a car, lifts her feet up out of the way, and points a stiff little arm in the direction that I should push. Filled with guilt for having abandoned her for an entire day, I, of course, comply.

We usually go around and around in circles on a paved circular path. I pick up the speed and make engine noises to make her laugh. When I'm least expecting it, she plants her feet on the ground and makes the car jerk to a sudden stop. Then, she looks up at me, eyes filled with mischief, and giggles. If she could, I know she would yell out, "Ha! Ha! Got you! Now, push again, sucker."

The other evening, this is what could be found in our driveway:



Sarah's red tricycle ready to take on her dad's new toy. This isn't my kid. Running shoes and hiking boots are my vehicles, but her dad, well, I think he completely understands her obsession.