“I like riding on your lap to the bus,” my daughter says as we make our usual morning path to the school bus stop, where I see her off to school, then make my way to work.
“You don’t know how good you have it,” I say, peering over her right shoulder, driving my powerchair down the sidewalk.
“I know – the other kids have to walk to the bust stop,” she says.
“No, I mean, you don’t know how good you have it compared to when I was a kid,” I say.
“How?” she asks.
“When I was a kid, not only did everyone walk to the bus stop, but it was four miles away, and it was worse for me because not only couldn’t I walk, but I didn’t have a wheelchair, either,” I say.
“That’s no true – you had a wheelchair,” she says.
“No, I didn’t,” I say.
“Then how’d you get around?” she asks.
“A log,” I say.
“What do you mean, a log?” she asks.
“My parents were poor and mean, and sat me on a log, telling me to learn to push it,” I say.
“No – that’s not true,” she says.
“Imagine trying to push a log for four miles to the bus stop each morning, up hill,” I say.
“I’ve seen pictures of you as a little boy, and you had a little wheelchair,” she says.
“…But, coming home was easy because it was all downhill – I just had to stay atop the log as it rolled,” I say.
“You’re the most teasing dad ever,” she says.
“You call it teasing, but I’m telling you, it’s absolutely true,” I say, pulling up to the bus stop.
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