My daughter Maxine is afraid of spiders, ghosts, owls, centipedes, thunder, mosquitoes, bumblebees and howling coyotes. I’ll add snakes to the list, even though she’s never seen one. She doesn’t like me to read spooky books about secret hidden staircases right before bedtime. She’s also afraid of heights and won’t even consider getting on a ski lift and, although she loves water parks, she’ll refuse to slip down the easiest water slide, deeming them too scary and solidifying her position with the warning, “. . . and you can’t make me!”
As her father, my instincts are to kill the spiders, allay her fear of ghosts, remain calm during thunderstorms and patiently wait for her inner daredevil to emerge one of these days at the water park. Sure, she’s a bit of a scaredy-cat, but I’ve also learned that, like me, she’s cautious and careful and it might take awhile for her to let go of those childhood fears. With both of my kids, I welcomed any opportunity to shepherd them through their early years and hold their hands each step of the way until they were finally ready to let go. I set an example by following rules, being punctual and saying “please” and “thank you.” And I told them countless times to keep their feet off the dinner table and not to talk with their mouth full (or at times, in frustration, “Don’t eat with your mouth full!”).
I was preparing them for the day when they’d no longer need me.
I wasn’t necessarily working from a specific plan or guidebook, and if I had, I would never have made it to the last chapter. On the eve of Maxine’s 8th birthday, it all came crashing down when my marriage broke up.
Soon I was sharing only a couple of days each week with my daughter and even less time with our son. My very purpose as a father had been halted at a time when I had so much to offer. Without a steady presence in their lives, day in, day out, from morning wake-up through bedtime, how was I to influence them fully the way a father is supposed to? Much of my paternal wisdom, which I had been rationing out over time, no longer had a daily outlet, and as things slipped beyond my grasp, it seemed like the only sensible alternative was to lower my sights and focus on a more manageable goal. I needed something that didn’t require giant steps yet would still fulfill an essential duty of parenthood.
The best I could think of was this: Maxine was finally going to learn how to ride a bike.
She’d been riding a little pink 16-incher with training wheels for a few years and was reluctant to take the next step. Maybe reluctant isn’t the right word. She refused to let me remove the training wheels. Much like everything else in her life, she just didn’t want to change anything. She wanted things as they used to be. But she was getting too big for this bike; she needed a new one, and I needed a plan to make it happen.
As a reward for doing chores, I promised her a new toy and lured her to the local Target, knowing that around the corner from the toy aisle was the bike aisle. I took her hand and we stepped over to look at the bikes. There, already assembled, was a brand new Schwinn. Blue seemed to be her new favorite color and this bike was shiny light blue with sparkly adornments and 20-inch white tires. I lifted it off the rack and stood it up for her to admire. With the kickstand down, she sat on the seat, grabbed the handlebars, looked up at me and smiled. Bingo!
I began her lessons by following the standard procedure, wherein Dad holds onto the bike and runs alongside, providing security for the rider and slowly instilling confidence. However, the sidewalk on our block proved to be too narrow and bumpy for her comfort and made for an occasionally treacherous task for me, as I narrowly escaped careening into my neighbor’s wrought-iron fence whenever Maxine would veer off-course.
At my suggestion, we moved it out back to the alley, which afforded plenty of elbow room for her unsteady riding. Still, she was reluctant. She wouldn’t let go of the pink bike, so we struck a compromise. She’d start our lesson with one ride eastbound down the alley, turn around and head west back to our garage, all while atop the pink bike and its rattling training wheels. Then she’d hop on the new bike and, with my right hand firmly gripping the center of her handlebars, I’d run alongside her. As I encouraged her to find her balance and pick up the speed, she’d insist I hold on tight and not let go, not even for a second.
We rotated back and forth, from pink to blue to pink, over and over again each time she spent a day with me. Over the course of two months she made steady progress, and as time went on, she developed enough balance so that the training wheels on the pink bike seldom touched the ground.
I expected this might take all summer, so I hunkered down for the long haul. We only took one break from our lessons, and that was over the 4th of July weekend, when she spent a few days with her brother, her mom and some friends in Wisconsin.
I drove to Michigan for a few days, bringing my bike, and early Saturday I set out for a ride down the Kal-Haven bike path, a nature ride through woods and farms and along back roads, giving me time to clear my head and get some exercise. When I got back, I text-messaged my son telling him about my ride and asking him to inform Maxine that I’d seen five chipmunks along the way. A few hours later he excitedly replied that Maxine had been riding a two-wheeler all weekend with her friends!
A rush of exhilaration hit me, followed quickly by a strange feeling of disappointment. I was elated that she was finally riding, but bummed that I was not there to see it. There, on the other side of Lake Michigan, she had found her balance. Apparently, it was me who wasn’t ready to let go.
What hadn’t occurred to me was that once she did learn, we’d be able to ride bikes together. Our favorite spot is DePaul University’s student commons, a place called The Quadrangle. It’s an immense grassy lawn, half the size of a city block, geometrically designed with wide, smooth sidewalks that crisscross the grass and form a perimeter around the commons.
When we ride there, which is just about every time we’re together, there are days when she wants to follow me and others when she wants to go her own way, so we ride endlessly, sometimes on opposite ends of the Quad but often crossing paths in the center, passing close and smiling broadly.
As I watch her ride off in a new direction, it seems as if she’s the one training me. One of these days, she won’t need me anymore.
