We now have a non-training-wheel bicycle rider!
All summer Mikey showed no interest in learning to ride his bike. Then we went camping and a lot of the older kids were riding their bikes all over the campground, and that piqued the 6-year-old’s interest.
So recently, my husband removed the training wheels – ripping the proverbial Band-Aid off – and by the end of that afternoon Mikey was riding his bike.
We live at the end of a cul-de-sac, on a street that is pretty quiet. Still, it pales in comparison to the desolate rural country roads I grew up riding my bike on, in Western New York. So we’ve given him parameters as to how far he can ride from the house. He can make a right out of our driveway because the cul-de-sac is right there, but if he makes a left he can go several driveways down, until the road crests and we can’t see over the hill.
He can go to “Logan’s mailbox,” to be exact.
Anyway, since the kid likes to push our boundaries – and our buttons – he makes sure to go full-speed-head until the back of his rear tire just passes the mailbox, and I’m sure all the neighbors on the street can hear me yelling, “Mikey! Turn around!”
Other than that, bike riding is going wonderfully.
Well, aside from the skinned knees and road rash, but that’s the cost of doing business.
One day, Mikey came skidding to a stop right in front of me to ask me a random question, which, if you’re a frequent reader of this column, you know is a typical occurrence. At least we weren’t in the car this time.
“Hey, Mom?”
“Yeah, bud.”
“Is Noah’s mom Spanish?”
Definitely not a question I was expecting at that moment.
“No, Mikey. She’s Mexican.”
“Oh … Well, is she English like us.”
“No. See, we aren’t English. We speak English, but we are American.” I could see the wheels spinning, so I tried to elaborate. “Noah’s mom is American, just like we are American. But she is from Mexico, so she is also Mexican. Just like our family is from Italy, so we are also Italian.”
Long pause.
“We’re Italian?!” Mikey asked.
“Mikey… Yes, we’re Italian! Why do you think we jar tomatoes in Nonna’s garage? And why we can’t eat ‘gravy’ from a jar?”
Mikey tilted his head. “But, I thought we were English.”
“No, bud. People from England are English. We live in America, so we are American. But we speak English.”
Another pause.
“Why don’t we speak American?”
“There’s no such thing as American language.”
“Does Noah’s mom speak Mexican?”
It was my turn to tilt my head. “Um, no. She speaks English, but I think she also speaks Spanish.”
“Spanish?” I knew what was coming. “Is she from Spain.”
“No, Mikey, she’s from Mexico. But they speak Spanish there.”
Another pause. “That’s weird.”
He wasn’t wrong.
“It’s not weird, Mikey. It’s history. People from England settled here, but called it America. But in Mexico …”
Mikey was riding off into the sunset before I could finish my history lesson, which was fine by me because I’m not entirely confident in my memory of history class from my grade-school years.
And just like that, another teachable moment bites the dust. One more item to add to my Mother of the Year application.
Holly Crocco is editor of the Putnam County Times/Press and mother of a 6-year-old. She can be reached at editorial@putnampresstimes.com.
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