The Screw

I recently found a really cool ride-on firetruck for my son and decided to get it for him for an early birthday present (yes, I know it's a sign that I spoil my son when his birthday is still 3 months away--I just think the "birthday" is just an excuse). I found it on clearance though and it's hard for me to resist a good bargain.

I opened the box and was shocked with the number of screws, bolts, and other unidentifiable metal objects were tucked neatly amongst yards of plastic bubble wrap. For some reason, I thought it would come fully assembled. Obviously I still think like a newbie parent when it comes to these types of things. (My mom laughed when I told her this and told me to get used to it. Then I heard the "You know how long your dad would stay up til on Christmas Eve? Just wait. . .next will be the train set, then the tricycle, then the bicycle. . .")

I shoved everything back in the box as it was just too overwhelming to even think about it. When Psych Daddy came home, I handed it over along with the instruction manual that resembled a textbook. Psych Daddy took one cursory glance at the manual, tossed it aside and delved in.

30 minutes later, Psych Daddy proudly showed Bean his new, shiny, red firetruck. "What's that? " I asked. "It looks like a choking hazard."


"It's called a screw," replied Psych Daddy, obviously annoyed that I didn't compliment him on his fine work. That or he thought I was an idiot for not being able to identify a screw.


"Sooo where does it go?" I mocked back.


:::scratches head::: "Hmm. . .I don't know. I guess it's the spare. You know, they include extras just in case." Psych Daddy then moves to the next room to watch his beloved basketball leaving me with a screw in my hand.