Tales from the Curb
By Kellie Head Yesterday afternoon I taught my five-year-old daughter to ride her bike. Consequently, I spent most of last evening with a cold compress on my forehead and a bottle of Tylenol within reach -- our HMO denied my request for a private nurse and IV tranquilizers. Hayley had been badgering us since Christmas to take the training wheels off her new bike and we procrastinated the task, knowing full well what lie ahead. However, when she gift-wrapped a wrench in toilet tissue and presented it to me at breakfast, I knew further avoidance maneuvers would be futile. Decked out in a bicycle helmet and knee pads, Hayley looked more ready for a hockey game than a simple excursion on a kiddy bike (the Chicago Black Hawks would have been proud). I realized this could get ugly, so I grabbed a box of bandages and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide before heading out the door. I was hopeful, yet practical. We started in the yard, since it's a softer place to fall. And, being the anal-retentive mother that I am, I carried spot remover in my pocket for those stubborn, yet impending, grass stains. My husband loaded the video camera and positioned himself about ten feet in front of us. In retrospect, this probably wasn't his best move. As we closed in on him, he trotted backwards, tripped over a tree stump, and captured great footage of a flock of birds flying overhead. Following the "body removal" ceremony, the control tower (my teenage son standing on the balcony) cleared us for takeoff. I balanced Hayley by holding onto the seat and one side of the handle bar, while running along side to keep her steady. I tried to let go of the bike, but her tiny, white-knuckled hand pinched my circulation deficient index finger against the handle bar. This kindergarten vice grip prevented me from letting go and forced me to jog through a pile of dog doo (where are the pooper-scooper police when you need them). As we gained on a group of pine trees, I yelled for her to slam on the brake. "Brake, what brake?" she frantically questioned as we skidded into the bank of trees. The pinesap, as it turns out, performed an invaluable service: Keeping her feet stuck to the pedals and her butt firmly planted on the seat (mental note: try pine sap as a means of keeping the inquisitive three-year-old out of the storage closet). Unfortunately, her hands weren't sticky enough to keep her from waving at passersby, which caused her to lose balance and fall into the ditch. Moving this field day to the street didn't prove to be any less hazardous. She seemed to go out of her way to splatter through every puddle, rendering me temporarily blinded and looking ready for the wet tee-shirt contest at the local biker tavern. At this point, as only my luck would have it, my in-laws drove by and asked what I was doing to their granddaughter. Murphy's law seems to apply to ever aspect of my life. Without forethought (my personal trademark), I stooped over to flick a worm off my shin, letting go of the bike in the process. That's when it happened… Hayley rode her bike. For a moment, I watched in awe, then raced to catch her, realizing I'd neglected to teach her how to turn. Learning to ride a bike is a milestone event in any adolescents' life. But after the bumps and bruises, the scraps and sprains and the mounting chiropractic bills (for my "news at 11" husband), I have reached a conclusion. Safety gear is most effective when worn by the parents.
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