them. “That was plenty fast, thank you very much.”
“I want to take off my training wheels.”
I pause, do a little double take. “You want to remove your training wheels?”
“Yes.” Sophie is adamant. “I want to ride like a big girl. On two wheels. Then I’ll be faster.”
I’m not sure what I think. When did I lose my training wheels? Five, six, I don’t remember. Probably sooner versus later. I was always a tomboy. How can I blame Sophie for sharing the same trait?
Brian is already beside Sophie’s bike, checking out the setup.
“Gonna need tools,” he declares, and that quickly, it’s settled. Brian trots home for a set of wrenches, Sophie bounds around the park, announcing to all strangers and at least half a dozen squirrels that she’s going to ride on two wheels. Everyone is impressed, particularly the squirrels, who chatter at her, before scampering up trees.
Brian returns within fifteen minutes; he must have run the whole way to our house and back and I feel a rush of gratitude. That he loves Sophie that much. That he understands a five-year-old’s impulsiveness so well.
Removing training wheels turns out to be remarkably easy. Within minutes, Brian has tossed the wheels into the grass, and Sophie is back on her bike, feet flat on the ground as she tightens the straps of her red helmet and regards us solemnly.
“I’m ready,” she declares.
And I have a moment, my hand pressed against my stomach, thinking,
But I’m not
. I’m really not. Wasn’t it just yesterday that she was this tiny little baby that fit on the curve of my shoulder? Or maybe a careening ten-month-old, taking that first wild step? How did she get this tall and where did all those years go and how do I get them back?
She’s my whole world. How will I handle it if she falls?
Brian is already stepping forward. He instructs Sophie to mounther bike. He has one hand on the handlebars, keeping them straight, another hand on the back of the banana seat to hold the bike steady.
Sophie sits on the seat, both feet on the pedals. She appears both somber and fierce. She’s going to do this, it’s only a question of how many crashes until she gets it right.
Brian is talking to her. Murmuring some instructions I can’t hear, because it’s easier if I stand back, distance myself from what is about to happen. Mothers hold close, fathers let go. Maybe that’s the way of the world.
I try to remember again my first experience without training wheels. Did my father help me? Did my mother come out to witness the event? I can’t remember. I want to. Any kind of memory of my father providing words of advice, my parents paying attention.
But I come up blank. My mother is dead. And my father made it clear ten years ago that he never wanted to see me again.
He doesn’t know he has a granddaughter named Sophie. He doesn’t know his only child became a state police officer. His son died. His daughter, he threw away.
Brian has Sophie lined up. The bike is trembling a little. Her nervousness. Maybe his. They are both wired, intent. I remain on the sidelines, unable to speak.
Sophie starts to peddle. Beside her, Brian breaks into a jog, hands on the bike, assisting with balance as Sophie gains momentum. She’s going faster. Faster, faster.
I hold my breath, both hands clenched into fists. Thank God for the helmet. It’s all I can think. Thank God for the helmet and why didn’t I cocoon my entire child in bubble wrap before letting her mount up?
Brian lets go.
Sophie surges forward, pedaling strong. Three feet, four feet, six, eight. Then, at the last second she glances down, seems to realize that Brian is no longer beside her, that she really is on her own. In the next instant, the handlebars twist and down she goes. A startled cry, an impressive crash.
Brian is already there, on his knees beside her before I can takethree steps. He untangles Sophie from her bike, gets her to standing, inspects each limb.
Sophie’s not
“I want to take off my training wheels.”
I pause, do a little double take. “You want to remove your training wheels?”
“Yes.” Sophie is adamant. “I want to ride like a big girl. On two wheels. Then I’ll be faster.”
I’m not sure what I think. When did I lose my training wheels? Five, six, I don’t remember. Probably sooner versus later. I was always a tomboy. How can I blame Sophie for sharing the same trait?
Brian is already beside Sophie’s bike, checking out the setup.
“Gonna need tools,” he declares, and that quickly, it’s settled. Brian trots home for a set of wrenches, Sophie bounds around the park, announcing to all strangers and at least half a dozen squirrels that she’s going to ride on two wheels. Everyone is impressed, particularly the squirrels, who chatter at her, before scampering up trees.
Brian returns within fifteen minutes; he must have run the whole way to our house and back and I feel a rush of gratitude. That he loves Sophie that much. That he understands a five-year-old’s impulsiveness so well.
Removing training wheels turns out to be remarkably easy. Within minutes, Brian has tossed the wheels into the grass, and Sophie is back on her bike, feet flat on the ground as she tightens the straps of her red helmet and regards us solemnly.
“I’m ready,” she declares.
And I have a moment, my hand pressed against my stomach, thinking,
But I’m not
. I’m really not. Wasn’t it just yesterday that she was this tiny little baby that fit on the curve of my shoulder? Or maybe a careening ten-month-old, taking that first wild step? How did she get this tall and where did all those years go and how do I get them back?
She’s my whole world. How will I handle it if she falls?
Brian is already stepping forward. He instructs Sophie to mounther bike. He has one hand on the handlebars, keeping them straight, another hand on the back of the banana seat to hold the bike steady.
Sophie sits on the seat, both feet on the pedals. She appears both somber and fierce. She’s going to do this, it’s only a question of how many crashes until she gets it right.
Brian is talking to her. Murmuring some instructions I can’t hear, because it’s easier if I stand back, distance myself from what is about to happen. Mothers hold close, fathers let go. Maybe that’s the way of the world.
I try to remember again my first experience without training wheels. Did my father help me? Did my mother come out to witness the event? I can’t remember. I want to. Any kind of memory of my father providing words of advice, my parents paying attention.
But I come up blank. My mother is dead. And my father made it clear ten years ago that he never wanted to see me again.
He doesn’t know he has a granddaughter named Sophie. He doesn’t know his only child became a state police officer. His son died. His daughter, he threw away.
Brian has Sophie lined up. The bike is trembling a little. Her nervousness. Maybe his. They are both wired, intent. I remain on the sidelines, unable to speak.
Sophie starts to peddle. Beside her, Brian breaks into a jog, hands on the bike, assisting with balance as Sophie gains momentum. She’s going faster. Faster, faster.
I hold my breath, both hands clenched into fists. Thank God for the helmet. It’s all I can think. Thank God for the helmet and why didn’t I cocoon my entire child in bubble wrap before letting her mount up?
Brian lets go.
Sophie surges forward, pedaling strong. Three feet, four feet, six, eight. Then, at the last second she glances down, seems to realize that Brian is no longer beside her, that she really is on her own. In the next instant, the handlebars twist and down she goes. A startled cry, an impressive crash.
Brian is already there, on his knees beside her before I can takethree steps. He untangles Sophie from her bike, gets her to standing, inspects each limb.
Sophie’s not
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