Some Assembly Required
Big boxes under my parents’ Christmas tree with my son’s name on the gift tag never fail to produce panic in me. They always, always turn out to be one of those huge toys that kids love and parents hate. Why? They bear the phrase that strikes fear into a mother’s heart: “some assembly required.”
This Christmas, my son received a very cool racetrack, complete with loops, curves, twists—the works. He squealed with delight. I groaned just thinking about putting that bad boy together.
My father very graciously offered to come to my house to help me construct the vehicular playground, which we got around to, oh, last week. I should feel guilty about that timetable, but so far, I haven’t managed to.
We trudged up to Jesse’s bedroom on a Sunday afternoon, coffee mugs in hand. My father and I assumed that with both of us working on the project, we’d be done before the coffee had cooled off enough to drink. It was a nice dream. Ice crystals had formed before we were finished.
We ripped open the box, and racetrack parts spilled everywhere. A vast majority of the parts looked alike, which we thought boded well. No. Apparently, they were all just a little bit different, but you couldn’t actually tell how they were different until you tried to put them together.
The box showed two different ways the racetrack could be constructed: with the two loops situated on opposite sides of the track (there was a huge photo of that set-up splashed across the entire length of the box) or with a second loop coming directly after the first (microscopic photo in the corner of the box). Before we ripped the box apart, I asked Jesse which way he wanted the track put together. He pointed to the microscopic photo featuring two successive loops.
We decided this was not a problem—merely a challenge. Although my father, even with his magnifying glasses, couldn’t actually see the picture, I could somewhat make it out. It didn’t occur to us that he was the brains of the assembly operation, so it didn’t really matter if I could see the picture.
The instructions consisted of a pitiful diagram featuring look-alike parts labeled with letters. There were no words to be found—not even in a foreign language. Towards the end, I sounded like a cheerleader: “That’s not a B. An L only works with a B! Give me a B!”
So, the instructions were of no help. With no other option, we decided to wing it. Parts were hooked into other parts; those parts were then taken apart and reconfigured. At the end of two hours, we acknowledged our limitations and gave up hope of ever constructing a track with two loops side by side. We informed Jesse of our failure, ripped the whole thing apart, and began work on the model with the loops on opposite sides of the track. That looked much easier.
Another hour went by as two intelligent adults sweated and grunted over a child’s toy. At that time, we had one piece left over that didn’t seem to fit anywhere. We could live with that. But we still couldn’t figure out how to fit the loops into the rest of the perfectly constructed track. Finally, knees sore, my father wisely said, “Let’s just take a break and get back to it another day.”
I agreed but then immediately descended on the project again, determined that this thing was not going to get the better of me. Taking pity on me, my father settled back down beside me.
I honestly don’t remember how we finally figured it all out—minus that one piece, of course—but I do know that second to my son’s arrival in the world, that was the best moment of my life.
In appreciation of all of our hard work, Jesse played with the racetrack exactly once—and broke it. TPW
This Christmas, my son received a very cool racetrack, complete with loops, curves, twists—the works. He squealed with delight. I groaned just thinking about putting that bad boy together.
My father very graciously offered to come to my house to help me construct the vehicular playground, which we got around to, oh, last week. I should feel guilty about that timetable, but so far, I haven’t managed to.
We trudged up to Jesse’s bedroom on a Sunday afternoon, coffee mugs in hand. My father and I assumed that with both of us working on the project, we’d be done before the coffee had cooled off enough to drink. It was a nice dream. Ice crystals had formed before we were finished.
We ripped open the box, and racetrack parts spilled everywhere. A vast majority of the parts looked alike, which we thought boded well. No. Apparently, they were all just a little bit different, but you couldn’t actually tell how they were different until you tried to put them together.
The box showed two different ways the racetrack could be constructed: with the two loops situated on opposite sides of the track (there was a huge photo of that set-up splashed across the entire length of the box) or with a second loop coming directly after the first (microscopic photo in the corner of the box). Before we ripped the box apart, I asked Jesse which way he wanted the track put together. He pointed to the microscopic photo featuring two successive loops.
We decided this was not a problem—merely a challenge. Although my father, even with his magnifying glasses, couldn’t actually see the picture, I could somewhat make it out. It didn’t occur to us that he was the brains of the assembly operation, so it didn’t really matter if I could see the picture.
The instructions consisted of a pitiful diagram featuring look-alike parts labeled with letters. There were no words to be found—not even in a foreign language. Towards the end, I sounded like a cheerleader: “That’s not a B. An L only works with a B! Give me a B!”
So, the instructions were of no help. With no other option, we decided to wing it. Parts were hooked into other parts; those parts were then taken apart and reconfigured. At the end of two hours, we acknowledged our limitations and gave up hope of ever constructing a track with two loops side by side. We informed Jesse of our failure, ripped the whole thing apart, and began work on the model with the loops on opposite sides of the track. That looked much easier.
Another hour went by as two intelligent adults sweated and grunted over a child’s toy. At that time, we had one piece left over that didn’t seem to fit anywhere. We could live with that. But we still couldn’t figure out how to fit the loops into the rest of the perfectly constructed track. Finally, knees sore, my father wisely said, “Let’s just take a break and get back to it another day.”
I agreed but then immediately descended on the project again, determined that this thing was not going to get the better of me. Taking pity on me, my father settled back down beside me.
I honestly don’t remember how we finally figured it all out—minus that one piece, of course—but I do know that second to my son’s arrival in the world, that was the best moment of my life.
In appreciation of all of our hard work, Jesse played with the racetrack exactly once—and broke it. TPW