Not if I have anything to do with it.
We were visiting family on Saturday night for my favorite Aunts 51st birthday. Believe me, this wasn't one of those huge birthday bashes with all the frills. It consisted of chillin' in their garage while they chain-smoked and then drank pineapple juice and Malibu rum in huge glasses. Oh. There were also lots of snacks and finger foods so the non-drinkers were satisfied.
We decided to drop in on them since we didn't have anything else going on. Caucasian uncle...and it feels funny to call him uncle because he and my aunt just got married a couple of years ago...but for identification purposes I will refer to him as Caucasian uncle. He is a biker. He had this mini-bike covered up in the corner of his garage. For whatever reason, he decided to give it to us. My aunt addressed us in Spanish, so the boys wouldn't know they were getting the bike.
Michael's eyes got as big as saucers. "¿Siiiiiiiiii?"
Sigh. He was just a little excited. I don't know how I feel about that little pocket bike. For one, it's dangerous. Two, it's dangerous. And three, it's dangerous. My boys are not that type of I.E. boy who have quads and bikes and spend their weekends at Glamis. They are not miniature bros. They don't know what it's like to have these types of toys. They are lucky to have Heely's and a Gameboy. Seriously.
The whole mini bike idea is scary.
Thankfully, Michael can't even reach the pedals because his legs are too long. But the boys are gunning for that thing...they can't wait to try it out. And what freaks me out about all of this is that my sons have absolutely no sense of self-preservation. They are just like their father. I foresee alot of visits to the doctor.
Go ahead, call me a party pooper. I don't care.