My friend’s mom always says that “your first kid is like the first pancake” you make. She’s right. That child is a guinea pig. The subject (or victim) of a big experiment. After all, parents don’t necessarily have a clue what they’re doing the first time around, nor should they.
There have been a ton of little (and big) “firsts” with my first. And many times I look frightfully at a situation while that voice in my head asks, “How the hell am I supposed to handle THIS?!?!” Diving in head first is my typical response (not that there are many other options).
My oldest has grown too tall for his bicycle, so I asked him if he wanted me to raise the seat for him.
“You know how to do that?” he asked in disbelief.
“I’ll try,” I answered, attempting to sound like I knew what I was doing but confident only in the fact that this would be … an “interesting” pursuit.
I found my husband’s toolbox. Check. (By the way, it’s quite humorous in itself that my husband even has a toolbox, but
that’s a blog entry for another day). Located the wrench. Check. Unscrewed the seat. Check. Heightened the bar it rests
on. Check. Replaced the seat. Check. Made my child smile.
AWESOME Check (don’t be fooled … C’mon, you know the smile
didn’t last).
Feeling victorious, I packed up the toolbox (but didn’t put it away, in case further adjustments were needed by the pro). As my son wheeled around the driveway, I asked him if the height
felt okay. Answering affirmatively, he made his way down the driveway. I got on my own bicycle (helmeting up first for safety, of course) and joined him in the cul-de-sac. My son decided to ride down the street a bit. He was two houses away when he face-planted in the middle of the street. Ugh! Poor
little pancake. His knee was skinned and bloody, but he wasn’t
otherwise hurt (when I saw his position after he fell, I had visions of shattered teeth).
I rode quickly over to him, at which point he picked himself up and promptly started blaming me for his wipeout. The Raiser-Of-The-Seat is undoubtedly at fault for the rider’s inability to effectively stop.
Wheeling his bike over to the curb, he growled, “That thing’s for sale.”
Trying desperately not to laugh hysterically, I calmly explained that I know it’s scary to fall – and it hurts! – but it’s part of riding a bike.
“What day does the trash go out?” Pancake asked. Oh boy, this wasn’t going well.
“It just went out today,” I answered. No response.
We ventured back up our driveway (leaving the taboo bike at the
curb … as though it was in Time Out). My son continued to
complain about his wound and stay bitter about his delinquent
mother’s incompetence in heightening a bike seat. Fun.
Eventually, it was time for me to start making dinner (more fun!), so we cleaned up the toys in the yard. I then asked Pancake to bring his bike up from the curb.
He walked down the driveway, and when he returned, he was pulling our trash can up from the street. Hmmm, I thought, maybe he’s trying to make up for yelling at me about the damn
seat fiasco.
“Thanks for bringing that up, Dude,” I said.
“Look,” he answered, opening to lid of the trash can to reveal
… Wait for it … HIS BICYCLE. In the trash can. Helmet included.
I suppose my face looked like I was about to go apeshit on him,
because Pancake quickly said, “Mommy! I only put it in there so
I could wheel it up here more easily.”
Am I nuts, or does it seem like it would be easier to take a bike by the handlebars and walk it up the driveway, or put the whole damn thing into a heavy trash can and wheel it all up? I have no idea how the child got the bike into the can. Maybe his
anger gave him special super powers.
It was awesome pulling the bike out of the trash can. And the helmet was at the gross bottom, of course!
The bicycle (with the now TOO-HIGH seat) sits in our garage … Ready for our next pursuit of bike-riding fun and hilarity.
Located the wrench.
The World of Author/Mom Alicia Murphy! 
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