I wrote this story last week as a writing assignment at a writing institute I attended in New York. I felt lucky to have such a good story to tell.
“Just give him a little push and watch him go,” Jason instructed. I took hold of Luke’s bicycle seat, ran alongside him as he pedaled furiously, and watched, amazed, as my baby rode off down the street on his bicycle. My jaw dropped. My hands flew to my mouth, and I turned to look at my husband’s face. Tears glistened in his eyes, and I could see at once my own wistful happiness reflected on his face.
I turned back to Luke, who wobbled unsteadily for ten yards before gaining control and riding smoothly toward the cul-de-sac. You’ve heard the expression, “My life flashed before my eyes.” Personally, I have never had that experience and have always wondered if it really happens, or if people who say that are simply being dramatic. But as Luke’s bike helmet gleamed blue in the brightness of the late-afternoon Texas sun, scenes from his little life flashed before me.
I felt him in my arms, remembered trying to wake him from falling asleep while nursing. I saw him toddling home from an evening walk around the block with Jason, carrying the biggest rock he could find to present to me like a treasure. I saw his face change and mature as he blew out the candles on his birthday cakes – two, then three, four, five, and now, six. His face changed, but the light and joy in life has stayed true. He has grown so much, but he remains that precious baby I swaddled and rocked, and sang to sleep.
My eyes brimmed with tears as my heart swelled with joy and pride. Luke started to sail around the curve of the cul-de-sac to come toward us. The smile beaming from his face and the light in his eyes melted my heart.
“I’m so proud of you, my Lukie!” I squealed. Before he completed his curve, Jason began to shout, “Turn! Turn! Turn! Luke, turn wide, but turn hard!” The front wheel of his bike began to wobble, and the bike began to shudder. Worry flashed on his face to supplant the pride that lived there only seconds before. Suddenly, his bike tipped wildly to one side and he stumbled six steps before catching himself on the pavement. I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my fists, listening for the all-too-familiar wail of pain.
Instead: “I’m fine, Mama. Daddy taught me how to fall.” I opened my eyes to see that face I love more than any other grinning up at me. I hugged his big little body tight to mine and squeezed.
“I’m proud of you, Luke. I can’t believe it! SO VERY PROUD!”
“Me too, Mama. I’m the proudest I’ve ever been in my LIFE!”
This has been a big year for Luke. He has grown so much, lost his first teeth, learned to write stories, gotten his first (and second) stitches. I am proud of him every day and know I am so fortunate he calls me “Mama.”
This latest achievement symbolizes, for me, something bigger than any of his others. The training wheels are off – he can go, almost, under his own steam. Sure, he needs a little push. He will wobble before he straightens out and settles into a smooth ride. There will be curves and bumps. Our job is to teach him how to fall, but more importantly, to get back up again. And, in the end, all we can really do is give him a little push and watch him go.
