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When It’s Time

Last summer it took the help of a village to get our daughter to ride her two-wheeler without training wheels.

At various times my husband, our friend Kim, and my brother-in-law Jason all trotted or trailed or panted behind our daughter who may as well been trying to ride a piece of limp spaghetti.  Our daughter would dip in the ditch and then bounce out the other side.  She would weave across both lanes of the road and then-without looking-weave right back.

But they all had it in them to see this thing through.

And eventually our daughter wobbled away on her own.

And I mean wobbled.

Two days ago, our son inherited the red Dora bike, the one our daughter learned to ride.

The one without training wheels.

The one my husband eyed and said, “I think he’s ready.”

I stood in the driveway, bracing for the first skinned knee.

Only I bore witness, instead, to our son tearing up the street on his sister’s old two-wheeler with his dad sprinting behind.

It seems it’s time, when it’s time.

And not a moment before.


2 Responses to “When It’s Time”

  1. Kim Frey says:

    Yes, I remember. At Pearrygin right?

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