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My kids, who are three and a little over four, have started learning how to ride their bikes. It’s been an incredibly rewarding experience, but also quite nerve-wracking. Watching them pick up a new skill and become more independent fills me with pride and joy, yet at the same time, I’m constantly on edge and racking up more scratches on my legs than a zookeeper at the big cat enclosure.
It’s a bit odd when you think about handing control of a small metal contraption to young children. If you took apart a child’s bike and tossed all the pieces into a bag, it would look like something you’d see in a medieval tavern before a rebellion. So, is it really a good idea to let a three-year-old who loves banging things around sit on what is essentially a mini weapon?
I’m thrilled to see them speeding along without a care. Every new milestone fills me with pride and seeing my just-out-of-the-toddler-phase little ones racing down a bike path feels incredibly freeing. At the same time, as I watch them pedal away, I’m often reflecting on the chaos I’ve willingly invited into my life. Once you get through the first few parenting hurdles, like sleeping through the night or no longer having to clean up after spills, you find yourself asking, “What can we tackle next?”
Here’s the answer: bike riding. With it comes the fear of them crashing or veering into the path of a serious cyclist, similar to a dazed badger wandering into traffic. Plus, there’s the constant worry for my own safety—tripping over their wheels while running behind them, getting shoelaces caught in the bike spokes, or a mishap with the stabilizers.
Those stabilizers are a menace, with their sharp hinges and rapid wheels that promise cuts. Helping my four-year-old on a bike with stabilizers puts my ankles at risk. What starts as a nice Sunday outing, breathing in the fresh air, often ends with scraped shins and ankles. Once we’re out there with an excited little cyclist, there’s no turning back. It feels as if I’m in an arena with a chariot, just like a scene from Gladiator.
The physical strain doesn’t end there. Picture me as a Quasimodo-like figure, pushing a tired four-year-old up a hill—hunched over, face contorted in pain. “Look, everyone! It’s the troll of the towpath!”
The three-year-old on his balance bike is a bit easier for me. He dashes off energetically until he tires out, leaving my partner carrying the child on his shoulders, the bike in one hand, and leading the dog with the other—quite the circus act. Meanwhile, I’m puffing along in the back, nearly collapsing while my daughter serenely pedals her cupcake-themed bicycle.
Despite the exhaustion involved, I know this phase won’t last. Before long, they’ll be racing off by themselves, and another chapter of childhood will turn into a cherished memory. I’d happily endure scraped ankles if it meant slowing down time, any day of the week.