Thursday, May 8, 2008
On a wing and a prayer
When B was 4, I was still picking out his clothes in the morning and getting him dressed, until one day he came into the living room, his little pull-up khakis on backward and his short-sleeved polo already over his head. He carefully poked one chicken arm through his right sleeve hole, then the left.
“See, Mom?” he said. “I never don’t need you!” Clearly he was delighted with himself.
I shared a laugh with his grandmother and dad later that day, repeating the adorable story.
Now T is nearly 5 and he just celebrated his own Independence Day.
There were no fireworks or cannon shots, just the hum of rubber tires gliding along the blacktop.
Yes, T is fully mobile.
It took him all of a week to master his bicycle with training wheels, every chance he got outside cruising up and down the street, lopsidedly — since those tiny wheels on each side of the rear bike tire never truly support it straight.
A couple days later, T was at his grandma’s and happened upon a little bike that had been rescued from the dump the year before from his uncle. It was pink, but T didn’t seem to care. Soon, he was pedaling over the grass at the back of the house, and coasting down the hills.
I came home from work that night and my husband said T had something to show me.
T got on the bike sans training wheels and pedaled off down the street.
Naturally, I was a nervous wreck then — and now.
T and I talked about it later that night while he was lying in bed.
“Why do you like riding your bike so much,” I asked.
“’Cause it’s cool,” he said, simply.
Somehow I knew exactly what he meant.