the Flintstone variety.

My mom is a yardsaler. She and my dad rarely miss a Saturday morning yardsale run. Growing up, I used to love to go with them to scavenger cheap goods. But now, I wonder how they ever had the time to go because I don't.

The older kids have their bikes and scooters that they use to drag the driveway, but the littlest guy is always left out. So, I mentioned to my mom one Saturday morning that if she came across the car of the Flintstone variety to call me. And she did.

At a yardsale that morning, a woman asked her if she had found everything that she was looking for as if she were shopping a retail store.
Mom: Well, no.
Lady: Well, what are you looking for today?
Mom: One of those toy cars that you move with your feet.
Lady: Oh! I have one out back! Hurry and take it before my daughter sees you with it. She'll kill me for selling it.
Mom: How much do you want for it?
Lady: No more than $5.
Mom: I'll take it!

Five dollars. Five dollars sold out from under a little girl who loved the thing! But still, five dollars and my little boy has claimed it has his own. No one is allowed to touch it. No one else can ride in it. It is his. He is the owner....and for someone who doesn't speak actual words yet, he's made that quite clear.