Monkey’s birthday is in January–which sucks badly enough, for him, because it’s so close to Christmas–and I have a horrible history of presenting him with birthday presents he can’t run out and use. It seems like a good idea, giving a kid a motorized child-sized Jeep or a bike or something for his birthday. But not in January. That poor child is now resigned to receiving something really cool, looking outside at the snow, looking back at his cool warm-weather gift, and sighing. Loudly.

I’m a slow learner. I recently ran across an amazing deal on this baby. Perfect for Monkey’s birthday! I ordered. It arrived this week. I realized that he might enjoy, say, playing with it NOW while he still could. So I threw mean-mama caution to the wind and said, “HEY! I bought you this for your birthday but let’s play with it now!”

The children keeled over and died from the shock of such indulgence from me. I think I may have been offended. But mostly I was too busy administering CPR to think about it too much.

We watched cartoons this morning (quality, non-argumentative time) while I verified that Chickadee was no longer sick (she had a tummy bug yesterday). After she’d consumed two cups of applesauce, a banana, and three pieces of toast, I declared the coast clear and dragged the kids on several errands. It was HOT this afternoon and the bickering began before we were finished at the first store. By the time we completed the last task and headed home, I figured I had two choices. I could just eat them both and be done with it, or I could come up with something spectacular to distract them from trying to annoy the living crap out of one another and me.

I really wasn’t very hungry, so I offered to put together the three-wheeler.

We took the box outside and unloaded all the parts. I read the instructions and went and got my tools. By this time, Chickadee had lost interest and was busy taking out her bike, scooter, and every ball she could find in the garage. Monkey sat patiently on the step and asked me if I was done now about six times before I finished the first step. I finally suggested that he check back with me in a little bit.

Probably I shouldn’t have even started it. I wasn’t in the mood for further frustration. The constant whining and tattling of the last few hours had worn me down to my last nerve. I usually enjoy little assembly projects and perhaps I thought it would help me calm down and focus.

Well. You know where this is going, right? The directions were in Chinglish. There was a single, tiny diagram on the second page of the instructions, and then no other illustrations. Most of the directions would say things like “attach steering rods to the steering levers and tighten” without giving any indication of which holes/hardware to use. Most of the bolts required hex wrenches–yes, not A hex wrench, but several different sizes of them–which were not included.

Oh, also? My tools are crappy girl tools.

Instead of standard screwdrivers, I have one of those ratcheting screwdrivers with a bit set. And APPARENTLY one of the FEATURES of this screwdriver is that when you foolishly apply PRESSURE and try to TURN something that doesn’t want to turn, the bit just sits there while the handle turns and goes CLICK CLICK CLICK. Not that I don’t, you know, appreciate the very charming clicking sound and all, but nowhere in my directions did it say, “Next, click three times at the chassis to attach stuff.” (Please do not tell me I had the screwdriver set to go the wrong direction. I didn’t. It’s just a cheap piece of garbage.)

Picture it, if you will: It’s late afternoon, the temperature is still hovering around 88 degrees, I am surrounded by what looks like a spectacular explosion of Buzz Lightyear’s Space Dunebuggy, and I am cycling through every tool in my arsenal. Screwdriver–CLICK CLICK CLICK. Different bit–CLICK CLICK CLICK. Pocket multi-tool thingie… phillips head–too small. Pocket multi-tool thingie… flat head–hey! That’s working! YES! Shit, now it’s bent. And I can’t close it. Crap. Pocket multi-tool thingie… this blade has a blunt flat-head type end… TURN TURN SLIP SLICE.

[Brief break to reattach my finger with dinosaur band-aids and indulge in copious swearing out of earshot of the children.]

This went on for… I dunno… six years? Maybe a little less. Meanwhile, Monkey kept coming back to check on my progress. And he would circle the area and size up the situation and then come pat me on the shoulder or finger my hair and say, something like, “It’s looking pretty good over here!” I would demur under my breath and he’d run off, oblivious. Then came the clincher on his umpteenth trip: “Wow, Mama… you sure are good at putting this stuff together! I think you are probably the best builder ever!”

I was hot and tired and my hands ached from manipulating a wrench in each hand (the only way I was able to secure most of the bolts, in the end), and I wanted to chuck my toolbox into the woods, sit down on the driveway, and cry. But that just didn’t seem fitting for the best builder ever.

Sometimes it makes good sense to let our children know that parents have bad days, yucky feelings, and limits. And sometimes you just have to suck it up and balance a chassis between your knees and twist two wrenches in counterbalance.

I kissed the top of Monkey’s head and told him I’d be done soon.

At long last, I set the finished vehicle down. Chickadee was drawing on the driveway with chalk and Monkey was bouncing a ball. Neither of them were looking at me. I slipped into the seat and put my hands on the levers… and then pedalled down the driveway, looping tight circles around my giggling children (these rear-wheel steering vehicles corner like you wouldn’t believe) and zooming houseward again while they chased me.

“Was that FUN, Mama?”

“Woohooooooooooo!” I called as I slowed to a stop. Actually, I was just checking to make sure nothing was going to fall off once it was in use. Mission accomplished. I picked up the strewn tools while they took turns racing up and down the driveway.

I sure am good at putting stuff together.