Sometimes, things just break.
This is a hard concept to teach a child, and often a harder concept for us adults, too. We went camping again this past week, and as always, we packed my oldest daughter’s favorite scooter. It was a gift from her grandparents a couple of years ago, and she absolutely loves it. She just loves zooming around the campgrounds with the fervor and excitement that any seven-year-old would have when handed that type of unbridled freedom.
Recently, she brought to my attention that her beloved scooter—the one with the pink footboard and the light-up wheels—was making "weird sounds" and not rolling like it used to. I'm sure you can imagine the feelings of serious concern and dismay written all over her face. I assured her that I would take a look and figure something out so she could keep rollin' on her light-up dubs (20cm, not inches).
Being the resourceful person that I am, I already had a can of white lithium grease on hand, typically used to reduce friction from metal-on-metal action. My wife often believes that I am "over-prepared" and buys things "that we won't use and don't need." Usually, she's right. But in this case, I was about to come out looking like a hero.
I took my rattle-can of grease and began my inspection of the girliest scooter of all time. In reality, this thing had been loved to the point of extreme degradation. Joints were rusted. The wheels, regardless of their heady glow when spinning, had developed a permanent patina of dirt. The footboard was scratched all to hell, and the detachable teal handlebar was showing signs of heavy abuse.
I found several glaring problems that I hoped I could put a band-aid on with the lithium grease currently shaking in my hand. The wheel bearings were completely shot, and the foot brake was so floppy that it sounded like a consistently timed snare drum whenever she rode it.
I set to greasing all the rotating parts as best I could and had her ride the thing to work it into the cracks and crevices. After a lap or two, she reported that it "was much better!" despite the unfixable flop of her brake. Great! Who wouldn't want a little speed metal while they scoot?
This all went down a day or two before our departure for the campground. We made it to our destination, and like always, the scooter came out. She was off, zipping around the campsite. I felt good about "fixing" something, and she felt good because she was back on her cherished ride.
Until she wasn't.
We were all hanging around outside the camper after dinner when she rolled up on us, exclaiming that something was wrong again. I took a look and realized this was probably the end. The two front wheels had developed a unique, unintentional camber, and upon closer inspection, the back wheels presented with two blown-out bearings. I couldn't fix that.
I had to tell her it was time to retire her friend to that great big playground in the sky.
This is the part that gets me every time as a dad. Her eyes started to well up with tears, but she calmly accepted the fate of her two-wheeled ticket to freedom. It's at these moments that I'm reminded I'm not a completely heartless fiend. Those unshed tears of sadness pulled at my heart in the heaviest of ways. Regardless of how silly it is to be upset over a piece of rusted metal and plastic, I found myself feeling incredibly proud and deeply sad at the exact same time.
Upon coming home, I took one last look at "the most beautiful scooter in the world" to see if there was any chance of resurrection. There wasn't. After giving it a final once-over, I realized that the steering linkage on the front had completely fractured. This thing was kaput. I asked my big girl if it was OK if I threw it in the trash, and she agreed without controversy.
I may get some eye-rolls on this one, but I had some emotions when I tossed that thing into our smelly, green Waste Management can. I maybe even had a tear or two well up myself (none were shed, for the record; I'm a man!). It wasn't the scooter itself that brought upon these feelings, but what it represented: something loved to the point of failure, and the undeniable end of an era.
I suppose I should tell you that I had already ordered a regular, two-wheeled scooter before we ever left the campground. The wheels will still light up, and I'm almost positive that it's pink again, but this one will be sized appropriately for her.
I think that's what really got me. Realizing that she's growing up, and knowing that I won't be able to just grab a can of lithium grease to resolve every problem that comes her way.
Kids grow up, things break, and people break. The one constant through all of it is that I will always love my girls, and I will always try to fix things when they break... even when it's their heart.
Dad out.