On Russian Christmas, at the very end of our annual exercise in greed, I had my three-year-old son open his drop-bar kick bike. There was a moment of dread just before he opened it. I was afraid he might grunt, then turn his back on it to play with the cheap plastic dinosaurs that were the remainder of his haul. That boy loves him some cheap plastic dinosaurs. I had built this moment up in my mind, and anything less than Pentacostal-levels of bike-joy would have been a crushing disappointment.
He grinned, pointed at the shiny gateway to lifetime freedom and financial ruin, and said, "that's my bike."
I couldn't have been more proud.
His feet still barely touch the ground when he straddles the saddle, but he pushes himself around the house. By spring, when the snow and ice leaves the road, he'll be tall enough to propel himself into all sorts of mischief on neighborhood streets. He'll race his brothers and sister. He'll probably fall down and hurt himself a lot, because he's my son.
I couldn't be more proud. 
"That's my bike." I can't think of any collection of words that could have been more perfect.


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