Every mother has these moments, moments that will inevitably change your life – forever! I’m not talking about the obvious biggies like the first day of school or high school graduation. I’m referring to the smaller more insidious ones that remind us that our children are ours for but a fleeting moment: first steps, first loose tooth, first time reading a book solo. It is these moments that catch you off guard. You know they are coming. Seasoned mothers have shared their sweet anecdotes with you. You probably even cheer and push your young ones towards some of these milestones. Yet still we are blindsided; our motherly souls aren’t quite prepared for the tension we feel. A part of our heart does the full on “happy dance” complete with hips swingin’ and arms flailin’, while the other side curls up in a tight ball weeping in the corner. Now you may be thinking that I am being overly dramatic. But, hello! I’m a mother losing her first born baby to childhood! I am entitled to a brief moment of drama. Indulge me.
It happened last week, on a warm summer Colorado evening. We had just finished dinner outside on our balcony. Our boys were chattering about the day’s events, while my husband, Mike, and I quietly decided that this was the perfect opportunity to give our six year old son, Zakariah, his technically first bike riding lesson. I say technically because I had taken him out earlier in the week. We had pedaled and run around our suburban neighborhood with my hand tightly gripping the bike. Never once did I consider letting go; I had seen too many TV shows and movies where the hand had left before the child was ready and subsequently a crash occurred, resulting in years of expensive therapy dealing with trust and abandonment issues. I couldn’t bear to let that happen to my sweet innocent child. Basically, I’m telling you this to point out that mothers, at least this mother, are not meant to be bike-riding instructors.
After the initial shouts of approval we began to prepare for the big event; excitement and chaos swirled about our living room. Not only was Zak thrilled to embark on this new adventure, but our three year old, Greyden, wanted to make sure he did not miss a moment either. After dressing them in appropriate cycling attire – two helmets, two sets of elbow pads, two sets of knee pads, two pairs of sturdy biking shoes, two bikes, and one camera – we were almost out the door. I say almost because one rarely leaves the house without a quick protest or two. “Mom, I look like a little kid with all these pads!” My instant reaction was, “Duh! You are a little kid!” But, instead, I calmly responded that boys who are learning to ride bikes wear pads.
Once out the door, Mike surveyed the surroundings and decided that the long straight stretch of asphalt next to our building was the perfect spot for their lesson. Greyden quickly stripped off all bike gear and announced that he would run along with his big brother. Zak tightened his flaming red helmet, which was instrumental in his decision to purchase a matching bicycle. Mike strategically positioned the shiny new red and white bike in the center of the practice zone. While holding it upright and secure he invited Zak to hop on. Before takeoff, Mike leaned in to impart his fatherly wisdom to our son, probably words that his father had given him decades ago. “Focus on the destination. Pedal fast! The faster you pedal, the better you’ll be able to balance.” These few words were practical and profound for our first time bike rider.
Both sets of eyes focused on the worn yellow fire hydrant at the end of the parking lot. With Mike’s hand firmly planted on the seat, they shouted, in unison, “Ready! Set! Go!” In the slow blink of an eye, they were off. Zak began to pedal. His sun streaked mop of hair jutted haphazardly from the tight confines of his flaming headgear. He wobbled back and forth, feverishly attempting to gain his balance. Without regard for my internal tension, I began to shout my words of encouragement, “Go Zak! You can do it!” I embraced the dancer within and began to bounce and clap with abandon. If Zak was sixteen, he would have rolled his eyes in embarrassment at my public display of wild delight. But he’s not sixteen; he’s still my innocent six year old who blushes with glee at my generous approval.As Zak’s journey came to an end, we all dashed to congratulate him. Mike met him first, exchanging shouts and high-fives; like men at a sporting event. “Did you see that Dad? Wasn’t it awesome?” Greyden arrived last. His slow, yet exuberant, run came to an end as his flailing toddler legs finally caught him up to the celebration. As he arrived, Greyden’s face beamed with enthusiasm, a string of “Yeah, Zak!” spilled from his mouth. Our intimate little family collectively rejoiced in the victory of one of our members. It was as if we had all learned to ride a bike on that cool June evening.
My heart grieves the loss of the chubby knuckles and padded bottom; but this sorrow is trumped by the joy of seeing my young son moving one step closer to manhood. Yes, life did change. But, our mothers and grandmothers have always told us to enjoy each moment with our little ones as it will be over in the blink of an eye. Today, instead of fighting the tension, I choose to embrace this moment.
I wrote this piece during the Denver Writing Project. I thought my mom might enjoy reading it:)
