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| The day after she learned to ride her bike |
I had imagined this moment for years, and in my mind this would be a Norman Rockwell worthy moment with me running behind her, holding the back of her banana seat (a throwback to my childhood, it didn't exist in hers), and then cheering her on while she pedaled away from me not realizing that I had let go ten long seconds ago. In this dream/fantasy I would have tears in my eyes and a smile on my face as I realized what a big girl she had become.
This isn't exactly how it happened.
We were at my parent's house, her grandparents. They live on a dead end road so there isn't much traffic. My Dad had decided to buy the girls bikes so they would have something to do when they visited their "boring, old grandparents". The bikes came with training wheels but on this fateful day my daughter decided she wanted to learn to ride a two wheeler.
Anyone who knows my oldest daughter, knows that she came into this world with three extra helpings of anxiety. At this point in her life, she viewed the world with fear and trepidation, so when she wanted to try something new, we did everything we could to encourage her.
When she first swung her leg over her two wheeler, the whole family was outside to document this iconic moment. Cameras were aimed and ready to shoot. She had a big, proud smile on her face and it seemed to be every bit the Rockwellian moment I imagined.
And then she tried to ride, and she fell. I don't even remember if we were holding her seat or not, I just remember the tears and the screams. She tried again. She fell again. The wails were getting so loud that I was worried neighbors might be calling the department of social services to report child abuse. My parents, my husband, and my other daughter all ran inside in fear that my daughter might pick up the bike and hurl it at them.
I was the sole survivor. I stayed outside with her. There was no smile, her dirt smudged face was streaked with tears, her hands were covered in grit from the pavement and her mood was less than cheerful.
Here's the thing. She stayed on the damned bike! She didn't run inside. She cried, she screamed, she cursed me (in an appropriate seven year old way), but she stayed on the bike.
I made a vow to myself that no matter how much she protested I would stay with her as long as she stayed on that bike. If she bolted for the house, I would know she was done. But she didn't bolt for the house.
I don't know how long we were out there, but I do know that it was starting to get dark. The family was all watching us from the window with looks of concern, fear, and maybe just a little bit of hope.
I ran up and down that street with her so many times, holding the back of that seat, while she screamed, "don't let go, don't let go" and I didn't, and I didn't, until I did.
There is something magic about bike riding. There are so many components one needs to remember, you have to pedal, steer, and balance all at the same time. You have to think about it all, and yet to ride, really ride, you have to think about nothing. It's the only way it works.
As I held the back of her seat I could feel the weight of her body shifting. Too much to the left. Too much to the right. Not enough speed. "You can do it!" I shouted with encouragement. "No I can't!" she screamed with puffy, red cheeks. "Yes you can." I replied. Through the day I heard her say things like, "I hate this bike!" "This bike is stupid!" "I'm stupid!" "You're stupid!" "You're so mean!" "Why are you making me do this?!" But I wasn't making her do anything. She was doing it. She was staying on the bike.
I could see the pleading eyes from inside the house, "Let her come inside", "You've done this long enough", "It's time to call it a day".
I was questioning it all myself. Then all of a sudden it all clicked. I was holding the back of her bike, but I wasn't. I could feel she had control, the balance was right. The force was with her. I let go, lightly at first, and then completely and she rode away. I stood there with tears in my eyes just like I imagined, but so very different.
At some point she realized she was riding solo and she stopped about 100 feet away from where I stood. She straddled the bike and looked forward and then slowly turned her head around to see me standing so very far away down the road. Her first look was of anger and betrayal and then she suddenly realized what she had done and she smiled, one of those big, gapped toothed smiles that only seven year olds have to offer. It was beautiful.
I looked at the window and saw my family staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed. All wondering, "Did we just see what we think we saw?"
At this point, my daughter turned around and rode back to me. And that was it. She was a bike-rider. For the rest of the weekend, if she wasn't eating or sleeping, she was riding her bike. She even took one really, nasty spill but she got up, brushed herself off, and got back on.
We were all so proud and happy. Even now, almost ten years later, we frequently recall the day she learned to ride a bike at family get togethers. We discuss the fear, the worry and ultimately the pride that were all felt that day.
But, there was something else that happened that day, that for me was more meaningful, and the real reason I cried as she finally rode away from me.
The single most important thing that happened that day was that she stayed on that bike. She might have kicked and screamed but she never gave up. I am not trying to be egotistical, but I know if I had gone inside, if I had given up, she would have too. It would have been the end. After all, she was seven years old, so that was okay. What I realized that day was that if I was going to be a successful parent, and if she was going to be a successful person, she would have to learn to stay on the bike without me there.
To speak metaphorically, eventually I would go inside, and she would be left out there alone, on her bike, and sometimes it would be getting dark, but she would have to persevere. She would have to force herself to try over, and over again until the "magic" happened.
I have thought of this moment many times over the past ten years with both my kids. There have been many times that I have witnessed them make the decision to get off the bike, "I don't want to take piano anymore", "I've decided I'm done doing swim team", "this homework is too hard, I don't understand". Don't get me wrong, I have spent much of the past ten years, holding the back of the seat, encouraging them to keep going. They still say things like " "I hate this!" "This is stupid!" "I'm stupid!" "You're stupid!" "You're so mean!" "Why are you making me do this?!"
Then just this past week my bike-riding daughter, now sixteen, came home from school with a sad, droopy face. "We got our math tests back today and I got a really bad grade," she said. I held my breath. Before I could even react to the news she continued, "But I am going to meet with my math teacher, I have already made plans to study with someone in my class, and I am going to go to my room right now to figure out what I did wrong."
"Okay." I said, trying to hide my smile. Stay on that bike.
Note: I started writing this blog post earlier this week and then I stumbled upon this from TED talks:
What predicts success
She is much more eloquent than I am, probably gets paid a lot more, but it all boils down to the same thing, stay on that bike!
