Biker dude

I watched my Dad from the front step.

His large steady hands clutched the handlebars of the small blue bike my son was sitting on. I knew they were discussing the serious implications of one unsteady move. My Dad grinned in solidarity as my little guy nodded his head in earnest. He was ready to give it another go.

His eyes straight ahead. His feet poised at the peddles. One strong push from Grandpa and my oldest son was riding a bike. After a sufficient distance, I ran to cheer and high-5 my newly minted "look mom, no training wheels" cyclist, thankful that someone had the splendid idea to make really hard kid helmets.

Then I sat down on our grass in disbelief. I think it suddenly hit me that I am the mom of a 5 year old.

He rides a bike. He can count, spell, and he grasps the concept of infinity. He sounded out part of Doe-A-Deer on the family piano. He knows that oranges are a good provider of vitamin C and that he needs protein to grow big and strong. He asks pertinent questions, like "why is the sky blue" and clarifies long-standing historical quandaries such as whether an M is really an upside-down W (it absolutely IS). Yet, to someone who does not like to be wrong, I am especially aware of his more interesting trait of correcting me when I have erred. "Mommy, that isn't a dump truck, it's a front loader!"

After a few brushes with a familiar pothole and an annoying curb, my oldest went on a Tour-de-Block with the hubby to sharpen his talents. As I watched them ride off, carefully avoiding the shrubbery jutting into the sidewalk, I remembered that I, too, learned to ride my bike on this very street, with the trusty hand of my father helping me to balance. I got to know all the potholes first hand. Or rather, face first.

There is something to be said for that kind of history.

My oldest has moved 5 times since he was born. Does he even remember some of the places we have lived? Before I graduate from SGU, we will move at least another 2 times, possibly more once I start clinicals. He could potentially be in 3 different schools before even starting 3rd grade. What effect will this have on him?

My thoughts are interrupted by my little munchkin returning and happily chatting about all the different sights and sounds from his first ride around the block. My parents both return with their cameras, my youngest patting his big brother's shoulder and saying "good job!" Hy hubby and I beaming, very proud of our little guy.

As always, with a little time, my doubts seem to abate with one simple premise: my husband and I are committed to our family. While they might not have the consistency of a permanent location, our children have the reliability of having a Mommy and Daddy that are there for them, wherever we live. I think that means more to my boys than having a long-standing familiarity with the potholes on our street.