"Mom, please tell Nora that her bike came from the dump, and not the bike shop." In my head I picture the transfer station and think free pile, please. This is the scene as my older daughter crashes through the garage door like Kool-Aid. Nora is at least a few lengths behind, but broaching hysteria at the thought that her bike was acquired so meanly. I spend the next five minutes (wringing my hands) extolling the virtues of used items. "A little kids' bike is used for such a short time", I tell her, "why would we spend money on it when we can get it for free...(yada yada yada)". I trail off completely unheard, "of course noodle, we'll spend heaps of money on a bike once you're grown". Nora begs me for the truth - that is, the only truth she can handle -- that her bike was purchased brand spanking new, by her parents, at a proper bike shop. Then I remember the white wicker basket decorated with faux silk flowers and the fact that it was purchased by me, for her, at a bike shop. Heck, I even paid full-price and I didn't dare think about hunting down a cheaper version at Walmart. After all, it was the least I could do to let my little girl know how special she was to have a brand new bicycle... (wait for it) - basket.
