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Catch Me if You Can

I did not anticipate reaching a speed past a mere jog.  But that was before my son zinged past me on the downhill on his Christmas bike, both legs in the air and in their wake, two plastic training wheels creaking like decrepit canes all aimed at the parked white van on the corner.

That my son’s steering is shady is a sure thing.  The scenery behind him is subject to more viewing than what lies ahead.  Which has caused the kid to bounce off of more than one mailbox.

Only the white van hanging half in its driveway, half in the road was like a teaser for my son’s bike.

By which time I pretended my ‘to do’ list had an urgent request:  ‘pull hamstring at 4:37 p.m. sprinting after small child on bike,’ and I laid a bit of tennis shoe rubber down.

That my son would veer ten feet away from the van while looking back at his mother who was going to need a new lung and a non-victory lap was just as well.  Only as I hobbled within distance of ‘saving’ my son, he jammed his brakes to a sudden stop and I…

I crumpled like a pretzel on his back wheel, arms up in surrender–completely mother-ed out.

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