While Skye and I were cleaning out the garage on Saturday we found two gift cards for our favorite ice cream establishment. We convinced the boys to go on a family bike ride by waving the gift cards in front of them. It was easier than we thought.
We made it there without any complaints or wipe-outs like the last time and the time before that. We actually made it to our destination instead of one of us riding back alone, getting the minivan and shoving all the bikes in amongst whining and complaining about what a bad idea this was.
I know I shouldn’t model that sort of behavior but I hate when my vision of the perfect family bike ride gets ruined because a pothole jumped out in front of one of the kids. They fall. There’s road rash and blood and pain and wincing. Plus I nearly faint seeing their patella through the gash in their knee.
We’re sitting on the stone wall of the patio out front, unharmed, eating our ice cream and commenting on the cars going by. I don’t know if the same person kept driving by or if beat up cars pieced together from parts cars — no two parts cars of the same color — is the latest teen ride trend.
I said, “Hey, James, what kind of car do you think you’ll be driving when you’re 16?”
“I don’t know,” he said, shocked at the thought of that being right around the corner. He thought about it some more. “They don’t have a very big parking lot at the high school. I’d have to park so far from the school I might as well walk. Maybe I won’t need a car until I have a job.”
Vincent, our nine-year old patted his brother on the shoulder and said, “You’ll need a car before that. First you have to collect chics. Then you have to start a life.”
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