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August 19, 2007

By Tiffany Horvath

Our son is in the beginning stages of learning to ride a bicycle.

I tried to work with him early on in the summer, when he got his new shiny bike. He was adamantly opposed to listening to me, and absolutely opposed to wearing a helmet of any kind.

I don't know, maybe he was worried about messing up his crew cut?

So, with my staunch and steadfast refusal to allow him near his bike without a helmet on his hard, stubborn head, his bicycle rapidly became a dust collector in our garage.

Forward two months ahead, to when his daddy came home on leave. Within two days, my son was pedaling his bicycle perfectly, swiftly moving downhill and wearing his light-up Spiderman helmet with a great deal of pride.

I'm not sure if it's because my husband had more patience at it than I did, or if it involved some super-secret male bonding ritual of which I am sadly in ignorance of. Either way, my son was well on his way to, if not his first triathlon, at least a trip to the mailbox.

I mention that because, yesterday, my son started begging to ride his bike along side of me to get the mail.

Our mailbox, part of a cluster, is almost a mile away from our house over various small paved hills. On nice days, I typically load the baby in her stroller, my son walks along side me, and we get the mail as a small, happy and joyous family enjoying some exercise and a beautiful day.

Okay, that's my dream.

What usually happens is the baby starts screaming about halfway there, demanding to be let out of her prison masquerading as a stroller. She insists on running beside us, her chubby little legs pumping along the road. Unfortunately, she gets easily distracted by things like neighborhood playgrounds and large rocks, and if I am not watching her every second, she is gone. She never looks back to see if I'm following, either.

It's usually at this point that my three-year old decide he's tired and he wants to ride in the stroller. However, since he's inherited his father's height and is a fairly healthy 45-pounds, the stroller is not such a good fit.

My son is the size of a six-year old, according to his clothes label. As a rule, six-year olds do not fit well in infant strollers, even when they scrunch their necks and try to sit on their ankles.

Once my son has attempted to slither his way into the baby's stroller on our afternoon walks, his little sister notices and she start screaming bloody murder, suddenly deciding that there is no where else in the world she wants to be at that minute than in the exact space her brother is occupying.

This makes our summertime jaunts a lot of fun.

We usually end up walking back home with my son riding piggy-back behind me, the baby cuddled in my front, because she's not about to let her brother be held while she is (gasp) in the stroller. And I'm subsequently pushing the now empty stroller.

I get some really odd looks from my neighbors when they see me adorned such.

Suffice it to say, I have only successfully actually walked to the mailbox twice this summer, and both times my children were playing at a friend's house and no where near me.

I mention this now because, when my son decided he wanted to ride his bike to the mailbox, I'll admit it: I was skeptical. And nervous.

But, I'm eager to encourage my children to be outside in the summer, so I dutifully put the baby in her stroller (yeah, she was already screaming) and helmeted my son and he climbed aboard his bike and off we went.

We didn't make it far.

Turns out, I hadn't looked at the clock when we left and it was rush hour. Everyone in our neighborhood was headed home from work, and my son, remembering my rule that he freeze on the side of the road whenever a car drives by, behaved according.

At the merest mention of a vehicle, my son jumped off his bicycle and raced to the side of the road, leaving his bike in whatever position it fell in. I would then be forced to park the screaming baby in the stroller and retrieve the bicycle.

Needless to say, my son did not find this as much fun as he thought it would be, and we didn't even make it half way to the mailbox.

My son also discovered that the majority of the way back was uphill. He can't pedal uphill very well yet.

So, the trip home saw me pushing a stroller with my left hand and pushing a small bicycle with my right. Both were empty.

My daughter was happily cooing on my hip, and my son was merrily singing, &#8220Jesus Loves Me” on my back.

I think I'm going to wait for next summer, when my husband will be home, before I attempt any more bike treks.

It's just too much exercise for me.

Tiffany Horvath is the mother of two and the stepmother of one. Her husband, Drew, is deployed to Iraq. She writes every Sunday abut life at home for the wife of a deployed soldier.