On Making Decisions

I did not enjoy college.

Sure. I met some cool people and had some good times but the overall experience was not a positive one.   When I was younger I blamed it on the institution I attended, but as I become older and wiser I realize that the person I was at the time probably had a lot to do with it too.  Basically, I had a lot of growing up to do.

Sometimes people ask me if I regret going to a college that I did not enjoy, and I always answer "No!" without hesitation.    Even if I could go back in time and change every single thing, I wouldn't.

I think I was already unhappy at college by the end of my first semester freshman year.   I looked into transferring but it was complicated by my big dream of spending some time abroad my junior year.   Most colleges required that their transfer students spend at least 6 semesters on campus.   This meant I could not transfer and study abroad.  I decided to stay put.   I made some good friends and muddled through to my junior year.  Then I went to Vienna and my life changed.   I loved being in Europe and being up close and personal with history, art, and amazing architecture.   I made some really good friends there too.  They were all Americans from other colleges in the U.S. but we were all kindred spirits who loved to explore the world.

When I came back to the states, and went back to my college, I knew I could tough it out for one more year, and I did.  After graduation I moved to NYC.    I ended up getting a job with a
high school international exchange organization.   It was here that I met some truly awesome people, that to this day are some of my favorite people in the world.  You know who you are.    After I had lived in NYC for a couple of years one of my fellow classmates from Vienna came for a visit.   He introduced me to a high school friend of his who lived in the city.   That friend became my husband.

After my husband and I were married, we moved to the Boston area and had two daughters that we love to the moon and back.
We have made a lovely life for ourselves in a suburb.    We even have a dog.


Time has passed and currently I am standing on the sidelines as my senior daughter and her classmates choose where they will spend the next chapter of their lives.    Some of them have already been disappointed as they haven't been admitted to the school of their dreams.    Money is heavily weighting the decision for others.  Others are coming to the sad realization that maybe they should have spent more time studying the past four years and less time texting/hanging out with their friends.   In the end, they will all do something next year.  Maybe they'll be at the school of their dreams, maybe not.   Maybe they will take a year off to figure things out.  Maybe they won't go to school at all.

There is a moment I can remember quite clearly from when I was a sophomore in college.   I was sitting on the grass on the quad on a sunny day casually looking at two brochures for two different study abroad programs.   I chose to go to Vienna because I liked the brochure better.  There was probably a photo of a piece of Sacher Torte.   In any case, it was that superficial.  Yet, that split second decision may have had more impact on my life than any other decision I have ever made.   If I hadn't gone to Vienna, I wouldn't have met the friend that introduced me to my husband, who helped me create the incredible family I have now.  He even paid for the dog.

So no, I wouldn't change a thing.  I would be unhappy at college all over again for what I have now.

 At 48 years old I realize that being unhappy or making a bad decision is not the end of the story.  Being unhappy is a question mark.  What are you going to do now?   Choosing where to go to college/ or where not to go to college is not the final decision of your life.   You get to keep making choices, and sometimes it's the ones that seem the most benign that have the most impact.

What I wish for my daughter and her classmates is not the perfect decision.   What I wish for them is to keep making choices, get to almost 50 years old, look back at their lives and say,

"Yeah. I made some good and some stupid decisions, and maybe went astray a bit, but it all led me to where I am today and this is a damn good place!"

Time

Yesterday my youngest daughter was sitting at the kitchen island eating some unripe, unsatisfying piece of fruit (not an uncommon occurrence in winter) and she said, "I can't wait until peach season."

I gave her a dirty look and said, "Don't say things like that."

Do I have something against peaches?  No.   I love a good ripe, juicy, sun-kissed peach as much as anyone else.

Right now my real beef is with time.   It's passing way too quickly.   If all goes according to plan, at the end of this summer, we will be packing up our oldest daughter and sending her to college.   Peach season, in these parts, is in August.

I'm in no big rush for peaches.

1997

It's January of 1997 and I am five months pregnant with my oldest daughter.   I can't wait for her to be born.   I look at "What to Expect When you are Expecting" about five times a day.  She has grown from the size of a lentil, to a lima bean, to a grapefruit, to a melon (I don't think they ever compared her to a peach).  Why is time going soooo slow??   My husband and I go to the movies and see a preview of a new move coming out in May.   My daughter is due in May.   I am so excited because the showing of this preview must mean that the movie release is imminent.   May is soon.  The movie studios have told me so.

Unfortunately, the few months between January and May seem to drag forever!  The couple weeks before her due date are unbearably slow and the week AFTER her due date, when she has still failed to make an appearance, seems interminable.

1998

I have just found out that I am pregnant with my second child.  I am terrified.   My oldest takes every second of every waking hour and I can't help but think, "How the hell am I going to do this with two kids?  I don't have any more time!"    One day I express my concern to an older, wiser mom who tells me with great assurance, "There are 24 hours in a day.   No more.  No less.  You do the best you can, that's all you can do.   It doesn't matter how many kids you have, the number of hours in day doesn't change."   Unlike my first pregnancy that seemed to take forever, this one flies by at the speed of light.   Before I know it I am the mother of two.

2000

I have a three year old and a one year old.  They are both sick.  They have fevers.  They won't sleep.  The baby just cries incessantly.  I am spending my day cleaning all different types of bodily fluids and I'm not feeling so hot myself.    I call my husband at work for the 13th time and ask him yet again, "When are you coming home?"  and he says, "The usual time.  I'll be home at 6."   The day has already felt like forever, and when I look at the clock, I see that it is only 9 a.m.   How will I survive until 6?

2002-2010

I would like to refer to these years as the "sweet spot" of parenting.   The kids are in school.  They are old enough to do things for themselves, yet still young enough that they want to do things with us.    They are the years of pumpkin and apple picking, birthday parties and sleepovers, trying new sports, learning to dance and sing.   Our calendar is full of activities, mostly fun activities, and we don't even seem to notice as fall turns to winter and winter turns to spring.   There is always something to do, to look forward to, and as we carelessly, thoughtlessly flip the calendar from month to month, it seems like it will stay like this forever.

2011

I am not really sure when the realization first hit me.  I'm pretty sure it was just before my oldest daughter went to high school, but I can't pinpoint the moment.   All I know is that at some point, some kid I knew, some kid I watched grow up, was going to graduate from high school.   How did this happen?  When did this happen?

Suddenly I went from my blissful ignorance of the passage of time, to complete panic mode.   This is going to happen to us too, isn't it?    Let's stop turning the calendar.  Let's stop doing anything.   Maybe if we stop in our tracks, time will stop with us.

2014 - Fall

My daughter is a senior but we are too busy to think about it very much.  There are colleges to visit, applications to fill out, tests to take, etc.  There are lots and lots of arguments,  Is this college too much of a reach?  Did you finish that essay?   Do they give good financial aid?  Did you finish your homework?  Did you look at this college?  Do you want to go to college?  Do you want to take a year off?  Some people say that the whole college application process, and all it's bureaucracy, was created so that parents and children would both be relieved to part company when it was all over.    It is not an easy time to get through, but when that last application is submitted, and the dust settles, we realize that the entire autumn has passed, the trees are bare, and we didn't even take the time to notice as each leaf, and eventually every leaf, fell.   Half the school year is suddenly over.  Wait, really?

2015

It is here.  There is no stopping it.  There are only 24 hours in a day.  That is it, no more or less.  Time is not particular.  It doesn't rush through the trying parts of life, nor does it stop and let us savor some of our favorite moments.  It just keeps going.

Even so,

I don't want to go to the movies and see a preview for a movie coming out in May, or August, or even, perish the thought, September.

And I most definitely am not looking forward to eating a perfectly ripe, freshly picked, juices dripping down your arm peach.

The Epic Teenage Journey

Occasionally a friend will post on Facebook that his/her child has just turned thirteen.  Frequently, the comments below the post will read like, "Oh, I'm so sorry" or "My condolences" or "time to lock up the liquor".    While I will admit that I sometime smile at these threads, as time goes on, I'm more likely to sigh and feel a tinge of sadness.

Teenagers get a bad rap.

Being a teenager is hard.   It was hard for us, it's hard for them, and it will be hard for future generations.   Every person must go through the transition/transformation from being a child to being an adult and it is a bumpy road for almost everyone.

So many religions and cultures have rites of passage for teenagers and there is a reason for this.   When you are a child, you are taken care of, as an adult you have to take care of yourself, and this takes practice.  Sometimes lots of practice.

In some cultures, a young teenage boy is sent into the wild on his own to learn to survive.  The lesson is pretty simple, "Kill or be killed", "Eat or Be Eaten", "Survive or……….don't".

In other cultures, kids are sent to public high school.   The same lessons are learned.

A few years ago I attended the Bar Mitzvah of a family friend's son.   My friend and I looked at him in his fine suit and marveled at what a fine young man he had become.  Now we both chuckle at the idea that he was "all grown up" at that moment in time.   Yes, physically he had matured into a young man.   He filled out a man's suit quite nicely.   But, in retrospect, he still had a lot of growing up to do emotionally.   But that kind of thing is harder to see.

Most of the hardest lessons in life have to be learned through experience.   There is really no way around it.   We can lecture our kids all we want saying, "don't drink, don't smoke, and don't text and drive!"   Unfortunately, our words are often not as effective as a hangover, or a dented car.
This is a universal truth.  It was true for us, it is true for them.

Last September I listened to two teenage girls in my kitchen mooning (is mooning still a word?) over the same boy.  I told them, "don't let him come between you two.  Boys will come and go, but girlfriends are forever."  They listened to me and lived happily every after.  No.  As if.   Within 48 hours of that conversation they were at each others throats and the next few months were filled with brutal conversations and horrific texts that quickly tore apart a dear friendship with much collateral damage in their wake.   Nine months later they are slowly nursing the bruised friendship back together, but it will never be the same.   BTW, neither of them "has" the guy. I wish I could say it won't happen again.   I wish.

These days social media makes being a teenager even harder.   When I was a teenager, I spent many hours on the phone with my closest friends and we would share our deepest secrets, crushes, and yes, we might even gossip a bit about our mutual friends and classmates.  But, when we hung up the phone the conversation was over.   Now kids text each other, and those words live forever.   One kid takes a screen shot of someone else's text and suddenly the whole world is seeing it.  Secret crushes are quickly revealed, as are thoughtless catty remarks.    Of course, we all tell our kids, "be careful what you text" but they don't listen until they are crying in their rooms because no one is talking or texting them because of some idiotic words they thoughtlessly threw into cyberspace.  Even then they might not listen.  

Eventually, they do learn the lessons, one by one, inch by inch, bruise by bruise.   As parents, much of the time we observe with white knuckles, and hope these lessons are learned without any serious ramifications.   When you teach your kid to drive it is just a metaphor for raising a teenager.   You grab hold of the seat, press the "invisible" brake and pray that you don't hit a tree.

And, as hard as it is, sometimes you get brief glimpses of the adult that your child is becoming.   You hear your child say, "You know, I am kind of upset with X but I think I'll talk to her in person instead of texting her."  good idea.   You come home from work to find that your child has put all the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and started the laundry and you didn't even have to yell at anyone!  Bonus!  Your child comes up to you and says, "Hey Mom!  Will you proof read my English paper?"  Haha!  As if that would ever happen!  (just some wishful thinking here).   But slowly you do start to see the insides matching the outside that fills out that man's suit so nicely.

Perhaps instead of treating the teenage years like the plague, we should acknowledge the tremendous journey that it is.   And, instead of offering our condolences when someone hits this momentous milestone, we should offer our support as the child sets off into the wild with only the crudest of tools in his hand.

And please, always remember, we look forward to your safe return.

Stop and Smell the Poop

Now that the snow has finally melted I like to take my dog out for a walk every morning.

He spent most of the winter convalescing from his back surgery and is still a little wobbly on his feet.

He was also quite inactive this winter so he put a few pounds on his already "sturdy" frame.

I'm just glad he's still with us.

When the girls get home from school, our lives are one big rush, with people coming and going all afternoon.   He usually just sits and watches and we head out and then come back again.   He doesn't complain, but he is usually ignored for most of the afternoon.   So, I like to give him a little time in the morning when things are quieter and we don't have to be somewhere "ten minutes ago".

His pace is slow, and he likes to stop every two feet to smell the grass, the leaves, and, of course, the poop.    After being covered with snow for so long, the world smells so good to him.   He smells it the same way I might smell a soup that has been simmering on the stove for a while, breathing in all the goodness.   Yes.  To him the smell of poop is olfactory goodness.   Eventually, we make our way to the bike path where we might encounter other people who are out and about exercising, etc.   We just plod along.

It's not unusual for someone to comment about his slow pace and say something like "not much of a cardio workout for you, huh?"  True.   Honestly, I don't walk my dog to get a cardio workout.   He is a shih tzu for goodness sake.   If I wanted a cardio dog, I would have bought a greyhound.    

Truth is, when he is "smelling the poop" it kind of forces me to stop and look around at how the earth is changing.   I watched as the snow receded bit by bit, and the ice finally melted on the pond.   I can see tiny buds slowly pushing their way up through the ground.   I notice a dead mouse who didn't make the great trek across the path.  You don't see these things when you are getting in your cardio.

I watch as a mother pushes her jogging stroller down the bike path and is multi-tasking, getting in her workout, getting fresh air for her toddler, and maybe texting from her iPhone.   The toddler might point to my pup and say, "Dog-gie" and the mother might smile and say, "Right.  That's a doggie." and off they go.    And more often than not I want to tell her to stop running.   Stop.   Take the kid out of the stroller and let him walk around.  Stop.  Let him see first hand the earth coming to life again.   Stop.   Let him pet the doggie.   Stop.

But I don't say anything, because that would be rude.

Later in the day, I am on one of my many trips back and forth to the high school and spot the most magnificent sunset ahead of us.  "Look!" I say to the girls "Look at the sunset!"   They don't even hear me.  They are talking about rehearsal, class, math quizzes, etc.   I keep driving because we do indeed have to be somewhere "ten minutes ago" but I know what I am missing.   And, I know the dog would get it.

Stop.

Who "We" are

As I mentioned in my last blog post, my father-in-law died about a month ago.   His loss of life was unexpected and left the family in a shocked state of grief, while still having to attend to the unfortunate bureaucratic details that go hand and hand with death.

My in-laws had recently moved to a community that had a sizable Korean-American population.  This was nice for them since it meant easy access to Korean grocery stores, in addition to many establishments where they could frequent and speak their native tongue.    When my father-in-law died my mother-in-law found a funeral home that was recommended to her by many of her Korean friends, even though it was not actually owned by Koreans.   My husband even went with her to meet the funeral director, an older white (this is an important detail) gentleman who seemed kind and jovial.  My husband agreed that it seemed like a good choice.

I have to admit that much of the weekend of the funeral, I felt absolutely, positively, conspicuously white.   I had never before felt like such a minority.  Not only were the majority of mourners Korean, but we were in a largely Korean community, staying at a Korean owned/occupied hotel, eating at Korean restaurants.    If someone had told me that I had somehow been magically transported to Seoul, I would not have argued.     I felt like I stuck out like a sore thumb in the company of pinkies (reference to the pinky finger, not communist or socialist ideologies)  That being said, my husband's family was nothing but embracing and inclusive.    One of his cousins went out of his way to make the girls and I comfortable while my husband took care of his mother.  Some of his older relatives inquired about my parents and my brother who they had met at our wedding so many years ago.   Everyone went out of their way to make a difficult weekend just a little bit easier.

The funeral was difficult but lovely, and when everyone finally filed through the receiving line, there were suddenly just five of us left, my mother-in-law, my husband, the girls and myself.   I watched as the funeral director was talking in a rather brusque tone to my mother-in-law and was surprised at how harsh he was being.   She had just lost her husband, he was a funeral director, why was he not being kinder and gentler?   Yes, there were details that needed to be tended to, but there was certainly a nicer way of handling things.    He was particularly focused on having a few items that had been on display during the service, picked up by no later than the following Monday.   My mother-in-law shook her head that she understood.    Then, quite unexpectedly, the funeral director looked me right in the eye and, without batting an eye said something like,

"They don't understand deadlines the way we do, when we say we are going to get something done, we do it, they, on the other hand,  do things on their own time, whenever they feel like it.   They have no respect for deadlines."

Excuse me?

I stood there with my mouth agape while the rest of my family made their way to the door, unsurprised, by what this man had just said.

I wish I had said something, but I was too dumbfounded.

When we outside, on our way to the car, I asked my husband, "Did he just say that?"

All he could muster was, "Yup".

It always surprises me how my entire family lets racism and racist remarks just roll off their backs.   Even my own children don't react to such idiocy.   And, in some ways, I think this is good.   I don't want my kids to feel every unkind remark, racist or otherwise, that comes their way.   However, I also think it is wrong to not react.   How is this guy going to know that his behavior is completely unacceptable if no one ever tells him?   He apparently gets the majority of the Korean business in town, and yet, he behaves like this?

Unfortunately, I was no better.   I did nothing.   I said nothing.   Yet, I felt slightly bruised and damaged by this man who had been so rude to my family during such a difficult time.   Yes.  My family.

As we drove down the street to the post funeral luncheon, and as I spent a strangely delightful evening in the hotel bar with my husband's extended family the following, yet unsent, letter went through my head:

"Dear Mr. Funeral director, just so you know, you and I will never be "we".   Even if you and I were the last two people on this earth, we would remain "you" and "I", never, ever to be "we".   The "They" you referred to, are my "we" and will always be.   "They" are the ones I stand with in good times and bad, "they" are the ones who comfort me and make me laugh.  "They" are a part of me, which makes us "we".

Despite this, I should thank you too Mr. Funeral Director.  You see, I had been struggling this weekend, feeling a bit like an outsider.    But, you helped me see my "we".    "We" does not discriminate, "we" is not about the color of your skin, or hair, or how tall or fat you are.  "We" is a choice we make.

"They" are my choice.   You can be "We" all by yourself."

There's really not much more to be said.   We stayed at the bar pretty late that night.   And, some of us had too much whiskey) ;)  The next morning, we got up, we had breakfast, and then we went home.  The car drive home was quiet as we were all lost in our own thoughts.

And, in case you are wondering, we are doing okay.

It's them that I worry about.

He's just an animal

When we welcomed our dog into our family almost six years ago I made a vow to myself and my husband that I wouldn't, or we wouldn't, become those "crazy dog people".   You know, the people who spend thousands of dollars on their dogs (or cats, or gerbils, or snakes)
 so that they can get an extra year or two out of their already very short lives.   I think I said something, "Let's always remember, let's keep perspective, he's just an animal."

Once upon a time our eldest daughter had an extreme phobia of just about all animals.   To say that this put a damper on our life would be a gross understatement.    Have you ever gone for a walk in a state park on a beautiful fall or spring day?    You know who else likes to walk on beautiful days?  Dogs.    Lots and lots of dogs.  Every time we took our little family to a park, forest, or anywhere outdoors for that matter, there seemed to be an over abundance of dogs.   This would send our eldest daughter into an extreme panic attack and usually ended up with us making a hasty retreat, and more often than not, with said daughter climbing my husband like a tree (his back and shoulders still sorely remember these days).   As she got older we thought the problems would get better but they got worse.   She would show up at a friend's house for a playdate and find out they had a dog.   Sometimes the friend was willing to put the dog away for the duration, but other times they weren't and dd1 returned home feeling defeated.    Also, after she learned to ride a bike (see last post), as great as that achievement was, it was not so great when she rode her bike into a parked car when she saw a dog in it's front yard.   We needed to do something.    So we started going to pet stores and other places that sold dogs who were safely in cages.    DD1 went on these outings with great trepidation and most of them ended with her running to the car and us chasing after her.

Then, one fateful day, when my husband was out of the country on business, I took the kids to a puppy farm.   There was this one little ball of fur that was just curled up in a corner sleeping and dd1 asked, "Can I hold him?"   Um.  Sure.   Next thing I knew I was buying the damn dog.    How could I not?     My husband found out about the dog through an email with an attached picture of our daughter holding the little ball of fur.   His reply was something like "Who's the dog? and, who is the girl holding the dog?"

As I drove home, I made the vow to myself not to become a crazy dog person.   Afterall, "He is just an animal".

My daughter's doctor warned me not to expect our dog to solve our daughter's extreme animal phobia.
When he was a few months old we took him on his first family trip to one of those parks that had caused us so much trouble in the past.  Before we even got out of the car I could see other dogs romping around the trails.    My heart stopped.  But, my daughter was already out of the car with our dog on his leash.  "C'mon!" she yelled to him as she went skipping down the trail oblivious to the other dogs.   As she walked past labrador retrievers and german shepards she didn't bat an eye.  My husband and I were dubious every time we passed another dog but she just kept on going.   It seemed too good to be true.   But, it happened.  We had an uneventful trip to the park.   Then, shortly after,  she went on a play date at a friend's house that had a dog.  The dog came to greet her at the door and she brushed right by him to go see her friend.   Time after time it became clear that our little ball of fur had worked wonders on her, her fear of dogs and other animals seemed to vanish into the wind upon his arrival.   Mind you, she wasn't, and never will be, a great lover of animals other than her own, but the lack of fear changed her life, and our lives, in unfathomable ways.

When the dog came into our lives the girls were 9 and 11.  They were on the cusp of the tween, teen years and it wasn't long after the dog came to live with us that the girls lost total interest in us, their boring parents.   Whereas once upon a time they would come yelling and screaming down the stairs when their dad came home from work, now they would come down to the dinner table and merely grunt to acknowledge his prescence.    But, not the dog.   The dog showed excitement worthy of a "welcome home from the war" return, every single time the dude came home.  It was like he was saying, "Jeez, I never thought I'd see you again.  I'm so glad you came back!"  every. single. day.    As my husband mourned the loss of the excited faces of two little girls, who were not so little anymore, he salved his wounds by petting the member of the family who was shaking his butt so hard in excitement that sometimes we thought he'd take off like a helicopter.   If one of the girls happened to be around to witness the affection being shared by the boys of the house, they might even saunter over to give their dad a hug, to show the dog the proper pecking order of the household.   Neither the dog or my husband ever objected to extra hugs and kisses being doled out.  They still don't.

When the girls became teenagers, life became more complicated for them.   They were changing and so were their friends.  Suddenly, lifelong friendships dissolved, and many tears were shed over this.  They would come home from school sad and distraught and when I reached out to comfort them, I would be told that I didn't understand, no one understood the "unique" pain they were going through.  They would disappear into their rooms for hours sometimes, and many times they would bring the dog.  Oh!  the things he's heard.  He's heard of heartbreaking betrayals and snubs and exclusions.   He's heard the names of all the boys that did (yeah!) or didn't (boo) look over their shoulder with a smile during math class.  He knows it all.   And yet, he never gossips. He is the perfect friend. Their secrets are safe with him, and they always will be.

As for me, the dog is my mostly companion (nod to Eloise).    He and I spend our days together in a very ordinary way.   In fact, as I write this, he is lying at my feet with the scar of a large incision running down his back.   Yes, about a month ago he had life saving, yet very expensive, surgery.    Yes.  The very kind of surgery we said we'd never do.

As many of you know, December was a very tough month for our family.   Right before Thanksgiving my FIL was fatally injured in a traffic accident.   He was in the ICU for about 10 days before he fell victim to his injuries.   It was truly awful, and to be honest, I am not really ready to write about all that transpired during this time.

I wish I could report that our dog was like Lassie, saving my FIL just in the nick of time.  But sadly, that was not so.    However, I can say that our dog slept next to me while my husband was away at his dying father's bedside, providing me with the needed comfort of a warm body.   His fur seemed to absorb the countless, mournful tears of sad teenage girls who are at a time in their lives, when expressing their feelings can seem like insurmountable task.   And, when my FIL passed away, and my husband sadly returned home, it was the dog who first greeted him at the door with his unbridled enthusiasm and his ever wagging, helicopter butt.

The day after my husband's return, the dog started acting funny.  It was clear that he was not well.  We went to the vet, first on a daily basis, and then on what seemed like a hourly basis.   Eventually, he became paralyzed and surgery was offered as the only solution to save his life.  We would have to go to a special surgical hospital, our local vet did not have the necessary equipment.

As I drove the half an hour to the hospital I thought of the promise we had made almost six years ago when he first came into our lives.  The promise to not become crazy dog people.   I also thought about how much he had changed our lives, how he had saved my daughter from a life doomed to being a homebound recluse, how he gave his love so freely without any expectation, how he kept all our deepest, darkest secrets, and how he had comforted us in our darkest hour.   He had done all this and yet,

"He's just an animal."

And, yes, I kept my promise.  I never forgot exactly who he was.

Stay on that Bike!

The day after she learned to ride her bike

When my daughter was about seven years old I taught her how to ride a 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!