Ever since I was ten years old, I had wanted an offroad Go-Kart. I wanted to tear up our yard and do wheelies, just like all my friends did. About a year later near Christmas time, I was begging for the Go-Kart more than ever.

“But, Mom,” I wailed, “everyone else has one, too! I just want to go fast.”
“Your father already said no, Ryan. Besides, you’re nowhere near old enough to drive a powerful machine like that,” explained my mother.
“Oh c’mon! I’m eleven years old now! I’m all grown up,” I pleaded. “Jacob got one when he was seven. I am way more responsible than what seven-year-old Jacob was!”
“I’m sorry, Ryan, but you’re not getting a Go-Kart,” my mother said.

I was demoralized. It was forty days past my eleventh birthday, and it was five days till Christmas. I had to keep begging, as it was my only shot at getting my dream present. However, I didn’t know how it was possible to keep begging. It felt like all of Northwest Ohio knew I wanted the Go-Kart. I decided that I might as well give up until I was an entire year older.

Five days later, it was Christmas. Something felt right about this Christmas because my grandparents were at our house, and we were told to go outside first. My siblings and I headed outside, and deep down inside me, I was praying for the Go-Kart to be there. Once we reached the barn, I saw the Go-Kart just sitting there. It looked beautiful just sitting there, like food on an elegant platter. It was royal blue with American flag stickers all over it. The ride looked more American than anything else, as if it belonged to Uncle Sam himself. I could not contain myself. I ran like there was a fire, straight at it, and I jumped inside of it. This is too good to be true, I thought. Then just as I thought that, to my dismay my grandfather broke the news.

“Woah there, Ryan,” he exclaimed. “Your mother says that you're not old enough to operate a machine like this one.”

Right at that moment, I sunk in my seat. I knew there was no arguing with Grandpa. My mother had talked to him and told him I had to be at least twelve to drive it. I was praying that it’d just be a joke, and they’d let me drive it. However, after weeks of bugging my parents, I eventually accepted there was no changing their decision.
Around eleven months later, it was my twelfth birthday. At this point, I had completely forgotten about the machine that sat in my barn. That was until I opened my birthday gift. It was a helmet, decorated with American flag stickers. I sprung up and ran outside to get into the Go-Kart.

“Happy Birthday!” my mother shouted out the door.
Yes, it was a happy birthday indeed.