Day at the Park with Mitchell and His New Toy Car

By Knox, College Freshman

Last weekend, I finally had the chance to give Mitchell the surprise I’d been planning for weeks. Between my freshman engineering classes and part-time job at the campus tech lab, finding time had been tough, but seeing Mitchell’s reaction made it all worthwhile.

I’d picked up a bright red, kid-sized electric toy car from Toys R Us—one of those Power Wheels models that actually drives around. The cashier, an older guy named Frank, gave me a curious look when I mentioned it was for my adult friend Mitchell, but I’ve gotten used to explaining Mitchell’s unique situation. Once people understand that Mitchell has the cognitive development of a two-year-old in an adult’s body, they usually get it.

When I arrived at Mitchell’s place, his dad greeted me with a knowing smile. He’d been in on the surprise and had cleared space in the garage. Mitchell was watching cartoons with his uncle Dave, completely unaware of what was waiting outside.

“Hey Mitchell, want to see something cool?” I asked.

The way his eyes lit up when he saw that shiny red car in the driveway—man, that’s a moment I’ll never forget. Despite his adult size, the pure, unfiltered joy on his face was exactly what you’d expect from any two-year-old seeing their dream toy.

“Car! Red car!” Mitchell exclaimed, immediately moving toward it.

Now, obviously, Mitchell is way too big to actually fit inside a Power Wheels meant for a toddler. That was part of my plan all along. I’d modified the remote control system as part of my electrical engineering project. Professor Wilson had even given me extra credit for the adaptive design work.

“Check this out, buddy,” I said, showing Mitchell the remote control. “You can drive it without sitting in it!”

We headed to the local park where my buddy Jason, who works there as a groundskeeper, had helped me set up a simple course with traffic cones. Mitchell’s dad and his brother Tom came along to watch the fun.

At first, Mitchell was hesitant with the controls, but that’s where the real magic happened. I sat cross-legged on the grass next to him, guiding his hands on the remote.

“Gentle with the throttle, just like that,” I coached. “Now turn it left to go around the cone.”

Mitchell’s concentration was intense. His dad later told me he hadn’t seen him that focused in months. We created a game where Mitchell would drive the car to different “stations” around the park—the bench was a “gas station,” the tree was a “car wash,” and the picnic table was a “drive-through restaurant.”

“Drive to the car wash, Mitchell!” I’d call out, and he’d carefully navigate the little red car toward the designated tree.

When the car reached its destination, Mitchell would act out the scenario. He’d make washing sounds and movements when the car was at the “car wash” tree, or pretend to order food when it reached the “drive-through” picnic table. My roommate Ben, who studies child psychology, says this kind of symbolic play is crucial for cognitive development.

The best part came when we pretended Mitchell was actually riding in the car. I’d narrate adventures while he controlled the vehicle.

“Oh no, Mitchell! You’re driving too fast around the corner!” I’d playfully exclaim as the tiny car zoomed around a cone.

Mitchell would laugh and make exaggerated leaning motions as if he were actually feeling the turn. His dad joined in, making engine noises that had Mitchell giggling uncontrollably.

“Where to next, Captain Mitchell?” I asked after we’d been playing for about an hour.

“Home!” he declared, pointing to a distant park bench where his uncle Tom was sitting.

As the afternoon wore on, I noticed Mitchell becoming more adept with the controls. He was learning—making connections between his actions and the car’s movements. Dr. Parker from my developmental psychology elective would call this “cause and effect learning,” a fundamental cognitive milestone.

By the time we packed up to leave, Mitchell had given names to all the locations in our makeshift town and had created a routine for his “daily drives.” His dad mentioned that Mitchell hadn’t stopped talking about his “big red car” all the way home.

That night, as I was working on my physics assignment in my dorm, I got a text from Mitchell’s dad with a photo of Mitchell sleeping soundly, the remote control clutched in his hand. The message read: “He insisted on keeping it close. Says he has big driving plans for tomorrow. Thank you.”

Sometimes the best engineering solutions aren’t about complex algorithms or cutting-edge technology. Sometimes they’re about finding creative ways to bridge worlds—in this case, between Mitchell’s cognitive reality and his physical limitations. That toy car might be too small for Mitchell to ride in physically, but in the world we created together at the park, he was cruising down imaginary highways, going wherever his two-year-old imagination wanted to take him.

And honestly, I’m just grateful to be along for the ride.