The bike is in cold storage for the winter. (Meaning, it’s sitting on the balcony, waiting for warmer days.)
This means that every afternoon Elsa and I run across the street to catch a train, so we can take it one stop, run down 3 flights of stairs, catch another train, take it four stops, cross the platform to catch another train, take it 3 stops, walk up 2 flights of stairs and 7 blocks so we can be there happy and smiling when the boys get out of school.
And then we do it all in reverse, with two more people along for the ride.
I’m just going to say it straight out: It’s not my favorite.
One day I tried to make it a little more fun by stopping at a bakery and getting a baked good for the kids to share. That led to several days of broken hearts when we didn’t get a baked good when we passed by the bakery.
Several times Elsa has fallen asleep in my arms just before we got to our final stop on the train. I carried her in my arms the 15 minute walk to and from the school, and in a couple of cases, almost all the way home.
Another time she didn’t fall asleep until we were almost home, and she was so cranky she threw a tantrum, laid down on the (dirtynastysticky) floor of the train and screamed if I even looked at her.
Most days it’s just me and the kids, walking over snow and ice. I try to remind myself that the joy is in the journey, but often by the time we finally get to the station I’ve lost all my patience for climbing on the snow banks and ice piles and reminding them that the ice next to the street is off limits and watching them kick ice puck after ice puck down the sidewalk until I draw a line at one more kick and then we need to keep.on.walking.
It rarely feels like a victory when we finally make it through the door. I’m too tired to be relieved, to frazzled to quickly smooth things over.
So I pop some popcorn or mix some trail mix and try to listen as Simon tells me about his day or Oliver reads his books to me. But really, I’m getting a little antsy to bust that bike out of the ice.