My son fell off of his bike for the first time the other day, which is really great because now we’ve got that over with, know what I mean? We’ve got that first big spill out of the way and we can stop waiting for the other shoe to dr….what do you mean he needs new shoes? We just got him those! Didn’t we?
Sorry, got distracted.
The kid’s first bike wreck experience was enhanced by the fact that we were kind of far from our house at the time. He’d been biking, I’d been hoofing it along side of him, a feat that I’m guessing won’t be possible once the training wheels come off. Thus, I got to escort a wailing child and his bike a pretty good distance back to our house, which meant that some of my neighbors probably had the calm of their evenings shattered by the sound of a child crying out to the heavens. Most of my neighbors seem nice, the ones we’ve talked to anyway. I like to imagine them in their houses doing some mundane evening household task — cooking dinner, watching television, writing strongly worded letters to the editor — when suddenly, my son’s voice tapped their eardrums. They ran to their windows to see what all this shouting was about and saw a man (that would be me) pushing along a little bicycle with a sad little boy on it. “What’s that man done to that poor child?” they may have asked themselves.
“Oh yeah, sorry kid, I kinda forgot to mention…”