I Got It
We don’t live super close to Tate’s school. But nothing in this town is really that far; it takes us about six minutes to drive there. So, over the years, I’ve taken at least one morning each week in the fall and the spring to ride to school with her.
It’s a way to slow down and spend some quality time together in nature, chit-chatting on our way, observing the beauty of the season. It allows us a chance to work on her biking skills. And it gives her a whole bunch of sky and fresh air before a long day inside.
When she gets to fourth grade, she announces, “I think I’m ready to ride alone to school, Mama.”
All of a sudden, 3.2 miles seems really far.
What flashes through my head are all our sweet memories of riding together. If those are over, what other memories would we have? At the same time, I’d gain an hour of worktime, no doubt. I think of how big she wants to be. And of how truly capable she is. Of how her friends that bike alone live much closer.
“Okay, babe, I bet you are. Lemme think about the things I want to make sure you’ve got down pat before you give it a go. To make sure I’m comfortable with it and you are, too. I think we’ll probably do it together a handful more times and then you can try it out.”
“I think 1 or 2 more times will do, Mama. I got it,” she says as she swings her backpack over her shoulder (after putting the lock inside) and heads off to catch her friends on their way to their classroom door.
I watch her go. I watch her confident walk. One I never had at that age. I watch the way she throws her loose arm over a girl’s shoulder I thought she barely knew. She’s big now. Able. Comfortable.
*
The first day Tate rides alone, as I walk her to the end of the driveway, I calmly remind her of all the things she already knows. I’m sincerely attempting a casual tone, reminding myself over and over again inside how much I trust her instincts.
I reveiw how to navigate the intersections. How to look down alleyways and watch for garbage trucks. What to do if she encounters a homeless person sleeping in the underpass. All of it …
She’s listening but not listening. Mustering up her own courage, I can see. Here we are, both of us working on staying collected. On believing. And on letting go.
After a half dozen (way more than normal from this girl) I love yous, she wobbles on and starts coasting down our street. It’s still hard for her to turn her head around while biking, so she lifts her hand for a quick wave and offers one last “LOVE you!” after she makes it through the first stop sign.
My head goes to what if she falls over, once she’s out of sight, and is bleeding. What if a fast college kid doesn’t see her and whips around a corner. What if she forgets the way. My mind wants to catastrophe but I stop it. Firmly. Because I know all too well that she can feel what my mind sees.
With all of me, one hand on my heart and one outstretched reaching toward her, I focus on my belief in her. In how capable she is. And watch, standing in the middle of the street in front of my house, until her head is a tiny pin on the horizon and she’s gone.
