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I’ll never forget the sight of that little red tricycle under the Christmas tree.

There are gifts that are gifts and there are gifts that are milestones, and this was a big one: my son’s first wheeled transportation.

Looking at it made my heart swell with a complicated mix of pride and hope and anxiety — my son was growing up so fast.

From boy to man. The passing of the torch from father to son. On this day, a tricycle. On the next, behind the wheel of a monster truck, crushing aging junkers in an indoor sports arena.

It wasn’t just a tricycle — I was giving him the gift of speed, the three-wheeled, brightly-colored-plastic equivalent of Mercury’s winged shoes.

Oh, there were other gifts that year, fine ones. Books. Socks. Other boxes wrapped in festive paper.

But make no mistake: This Christmas, the tricycle was the centerpiece, the piece de resistance .

Before my wife and I went upstairs Christmas Eve, we made sure the bow looked right, the metal positioned just so in the glow of the lights around the tree.

As I recall, we shared a special look: Our boy’s growing up.

On to Christmas morning.

Carl scampered downstairs to see what awaited.

There was a lot to see, but I knew what he wanted to do first: hop on that tricycle and feel the wind in his hair.

So, I diverted him from the other distractions in the room, plopped him on board and waited for the magic.

No magic. Actually, no perceptible movement at all.

Hmm.

Was there something stopping the wheels from turning, some packaging remnant preventing motion? No. Maybe there was some manufacturing defect! No again.

I was at a loss. Until I spotted the problem: It was the living room’s thick Berber carpet, of course. Why, Lance Armstrong himself couldn’t churn his way through this morass.

So, we try again, this time on the wood floor upstairs.

Go, little fellow! Go like the wind!

Sure enough, the tricycle began to move. Sort of.

It kind of wobbled across the floor for three or four feet, until the momentum from my push faded.

Carl gamely tried to work the pedals with his little feet, but, as only one could reach a pedal at a time, his efforts were sadly in vain.

He and the tricycle came to a stop in the middle of the room, looking like a stalled car in an intersection.

My first thought: We need a bigger boost.

As I geared up for an Olympic bobsledesque running shove, something akin to sanity began to trickle back into my head.

Dimly, I began to sense the real problem.

Maybe, at 18 months, he wasn’t ready for the tricycle. Maybe my parental ambition had outstripped reality. Maybe patience was the answer.

My desire to demonstrate the excellence of my tricycle-riding genes to the world would have to wait.

It’s three years later, and he loves that tricycle, which he rides with a madman’s fervor, legs pedaling at an absurd speed, able to ring the bell, avoid the apartment stairway, and shoot out into the parking lot at warp speed before slamming on the brakes at the edge of the parking spaces.

I’d like to think I’ve learned something as well. (Although it took a few other ill-fated gifts, including the Lil’ Scientist Cold Fusion Kit, a tackling dummy, “Curious George Goes to MIT” and a ’98 Honda Civic.)

I’ve learned to let the kids be kids. To not rush things for Carl and his sister Valerie.

Now, it’s time for his first bicycle. I think he’s ready for it, and I feel proud that I waited.

And I just can’t wait to see his little face light up when he sees “War and Peace” in his stocking this year.

He’s gonna love it!