We’ve been riding bikes a lot lately. Simon is able to ride along with me when I go for a run around the park, and Oliver — who was hardly able to ride at the beginning of the summer — has gotten so good that he wanted a chance to ride to the park last week. So he took his bike, Simon took his, and I took mine — along with a couple of bungee cords to attach his to mine when he got tired.
The park is less than a mile from our house, and I was glad I had Elsa on my bike still so I could ride on the sidewalks and coach Oliver (though Simon could have probably done a fine job of making sure his brother was safe at all the intersections). Once we actually got to the park and were past the hardest part, Oliver started waxing eloquent:
“Mom, I’m trained to do this. You trained me to do this, Mom.”
“Yep! And you are such a tireless learner and hard worker that you learned it really quickly.”
“Mom, that’s actually called a rockstar.”
And so it is, my son. So it is. Let it be known that I’m raising rockstars over here. As you can plainly see.
(And let the record show that I didn’t need the bungee cords: Oliver rode 4 miles on his own, on his little tiny bike with tiny wheels and tiny gears.)