My son recently had a birthday. Dashiell, a big teenager, had broken three cheap bikes within the last year and a half by taking them on rough terrain and popping wheelies. And now, he was without a functioning bike again. I felt it was pointless to get the kid yet another inexpensive bicycle made for a small person, so all his parents, stepparents, and grandparents went together to buy him an entry-level mountain bike.
The large box appeared on our front porch within a few days of ordering, and I asked Joel to hide it in the basement storage room.
When I went down to collect something from the deep freezer, I saw the bike, in several pieces, spread all over the rec room floor. I asked Joel why he hadn’t hidden the bike, and his reply was, “Dashiell never goes to the basement. I think it will be fine.”
My mom-radar is pretty strong, and I had a bad feeling that, despite the fact that Dashiell rarely went to the basement, tonight would be the night he decided to head down. I started to pick items up and haul them to the storage room, but Joel interrupted. “Just let me finish putting it together, and then I will hide it, but I’m telling you, he’s not coming down here!”
About an hour later, I returned to the basement to check progress. Joel’s red, frustrated face greeted me. He explained that the label said, “This bicycle must be assembled by a professional mechanic,” and that there were no instructions at all. Aloud, I wondered what was in that white packet on the floor that said, “Instructions.” He grumbled as he removed the handlebars, turned them around, and put them on the right way.
I decided I’d best spend the rest of my evening upstairs where I could work without fear of getting conked by an errant bike pedal. A couple hours later, Joel ascended the stairs and announced that the bike was finished and hidden. In an effort to be the supportive wife I always strive to be, I went to admire the final result. Upon arriving in the basement, I noted that the entire floor was covered with tools, in the middle of which was a giant box six feet long by three feet tall, clearly labeled as a men’s mountain bike with a full illustration of the contents. Before I went back up, I hauled the box to the storage room, picked up the tools, and locked the door for safety’s sake.
I met Dashiell on the stairs. “Hi, Mom! Gonna play a video game down here tonight.” He hadn’t played the vintage video game in months. He had missed seeing the giant, labeled box by seven seconds. Score one for my mom-radar.
My mom-radar also told me that Dashiell might try to go into the storage room. Joel couldn’t understand why I felt it necessary to keep that door locked. “I know I was wrong about him going to the basement, but why on earth would he go into the storage room? I don’t want to have to unlock it every time I go to get something out of the freezer.” Over his protests, I stuck by my resolve.
During the next few days, Joel had to retrieve items from the storage room no less than 497 times, by his count. Each time meant a minimum of two trips, because he never once remembered to take the key the first time. And if we add in the trips when he forgot what he went for, during that few days, he went up and down the basement stairs over about a chiliad – which means I heard a “This is stupid” roughly a thousand times as well.
When Dashiell finally met his new bike, he was in utter shock. We had, after all, pulled off the surprise. “Where did you hide this awesomeness?” he shouted.
“The basement storage room, buddy! Glad you like your new bike,” I said with a smile as big as his.
“Whoa! Dude! So that’s why that door was locked all week! No wonder I couldn’t get in there to get an ice cream bar!” Score two for my mom-radar.
