You only get maybe one of these per child and, like they say, “You never forget”.
It’s not our first attempt; on the 3-block trip to the park I do a little cheerleading, because I’m pretty sure he can do it if he believes he can do it. I have the wrenches in my pocket; one skinned knuckle later, the extra wheels are laid aside in the grass. Then my hand on the little shoulder and the grass thumping underfoot, around and around a couple of times. Then lighter on the shoulder and then the hand gone, it takes a moment for him to notice and then the voice raised in treble triumph: “I’m doing it! I’m doing it!”
Mind you, the next ten minutes saw a couple of nasty spills, one with a foot stuck somehow through the bike frame, and his legs have even more scratches and bruises tonight than a 5½-year-old normally wears.
“It’s like riding a bike,” they say, “once you know how you never forget.” And I remember my Dad running behind me too, only I was older and he held onto the seat so I don’t remember him letting go.
