Under construction: A kid's tractor trailer and my standards for perfection
Exploring the imperfectly functional
I vowed at today’s kid build activity at The Home Depot in town I would read all the directions. I wouldn’t make any mistakes.
My four-year-old son and I were experienced builders. We had a penguin on a swing creation under our belts. He had a pin on his orange kid builder apron to prove it. More importantly, I had learned from my mistake of screwing the penguin feet to the back of its legs. My hasty read of the instructions was thankfully easily reversed. And Tadhg got screwdriver practice in the opposite direction.
Our new challenge: creating a fully functional wooden tractor trailer. It would roll. It would pivot. Its back hatch would slide up and down for loading and unloading. We would even be able to detach the load from the cab.
We weren’t even on step three when I spotted our mistake. I read the words right about attaching the windshield portion of the cab to the engine block. I hadn’t studied the drawings. I held the block steady, the front windshield flush with the front of the engine instead of the back as Tadhg nailed it into place.
The mother across the table from us announced, “I’ve never built anything.” I don’t know if she was talking to me, or her son and daughter who looked like they were in elementary school. I had to warn her.
“Just a tip to line up the front windshield with the back of the block. Not like this,” I said pointing to our flawed cab.
“We’re not even there yet but thanks,” she replied with a smile.
I wished I wasn’t there. I wanted to go back in time. Or at least fix it. My son had done such an enthusiastic job hammering there was no hope of pulling the nails out. I tried prying the blocks apart but they weren’t budging.
Am I going to ruin his project trying to make it perfect?
Onward. We moved through the next steps more carefully. I read directions aloud. I compared my pieces to the pictures. I made sure the slots for the trailer were aligned correctly. When I was confident, we started nailing it all in place.
I’d line up the nails and hold the pieces together while Tadhg took his best swings. My thumb took a hit.
“Sorry, I’m not good at this, mommy,” he said, handing me his adult-sized hammer.
“You are getting better and better. Let’s keep practicing,” I said, handing the hammer back.
I chant out “hit the nail on the head, hit the nail on the head” to the tempo of his favorite “Boots and Cats” song. We’re here for fun.
He taps the nails so wildly I wonder if he’s even aiming for the nail head. I carefully watch for my thumbs. The rectangular box of the trailer comes together. Not a single edge is flush but it’s solid.
We pop in the axles for the cab and trailer wheels. We drop the trailer onto the cab and slide in the trailer’s back door. He slaps on the stickers – a slanted windshield and a company tagline slightly askew.
It’s his project. It’s not your project. It doesn’t have to be perfect.
I fix only the stickers that are hanging way past the edges waiting to be ripped off.
Then comes the magnificent part: Tadhg gives it a push. The tractor trailer truck rolls perfectly forward and in reverse. The trailer hitches and unhitches. He proudly lifts it from our table and cradles it in his hand. I smile as I notice that our cab looks the same as the other two across the table despite my warning.
When we get home, Tadhg asks, “can we finish our plan?”
“Of course,” I say handing him chocolate candy kisses.
He slides open the trailer door and loads it up. Tadhg drives the truck across the kitchen counter with a load to deliver. It’s an image I hope to remember the next time I’m driving myself to way-too-high standards. What better symbol of the huge latitude between perfection and function?