Give that girl a helmet!

Every child remembers the monumental moments in their lives when they achieve a goal that truly exemplifies their transition into the world of being a "big kid": their first day of school, their first video game, the first time they swam in the deep end of the pool, and so on. For me, the defining moment was when my Dad told me he took the training wheels off my bike.

My shiny pink two-wheeler sat proudly outside our apartment complex, the spokes of it's metal wheels glinting in the summer sun. It LOOKED like a big kid bike. But when my dad proclaimed it was time for me to jump on and ride, I suddenly felt like an infant without my blankie. "But I don't know how..." I whimpered to my dad, my six year old face bright with fear. "Well," he replied, "If your sister can do it, you can do it, too." I scanned the parking lot for my four year old little sister and found her zooming behind parked cars on her bicycle sans training wheels. Her green basket was stuffed full of barbie dolls and accessories, as if to say "not only can I ride this bike, but I can carry cool stuff, too!" My fear turned to embarrassment and determination. I simply could NOT let my younger sister beat me in the race to Big-Kidedness.

I marched my tiny self up three flights of stairs to our apartment and prepared myself for the adventure I was about to undertake. I padded my tiny butt with toilet paper, strapped on knee and elbow pads, put thick socks on my hands and earmuffs on my ears. I took a small pillow from my doll's crib and stuffed it up my shirt to protect my ribs. I knew I'd fall, but I would not allow myself to be humiliated by getting hurt. The last thing I wanted my youngster sibling to see was me in tears attempting to learn an activity she had already mastered. Much better to look a little silly at first, I reasoned.

When I was satisfied with my preparations, I waddled back outside to meet my Dad and bike. He dutifully suppressed his laughter when he saw me, round as a marshmallow with my toilet paper stuffing, and helped me atop the bike. He told me to pedal like I usually did and gave me hints about how to keep my balance. He ran with me as I gained speed, all the while swearing he was going to keep holding on. Then, he let go. Oh, how I sailed! I was Queen of the Bicycle as I glided across that black top, my toilet paper stuffing unraveling from my pants and flying behind me like a kite. I smiled as I whizzed past my sister and then turned to beam up at my father... except, he wasn't there. He was a few yards behind me, cheering me on with a proud grin on his face. My glee turned to panic in an instant. Surely I couldn't keep this bike going on my own! In terror, I jerked the handle bars and slammed against the curb, sending myself flying. I flipped over the handle bars and landed on my side in the grass. My pillows and toilet paper did nothing to dull the sting of deception and humiliation. I wailed, "Daddy, you promised not to let gooooo!" and ran back to the apartment, bits of toilet paper falling behind me like crumbs in a forest. I flung myself on to my bed and cried myself dry.

A little while later, I heard a gentle knock at the door. When my dad peeked his head in with a mixed expression of guilt and humor on his face, I folded my arms across my chest and stuck my chin belligerently into the air. He came into my room and sat on my bed and apologized for letting go so soon. "But you have to understand, Chelsea," he patiently explained, "sometimes in life you're going to fall down and get hurt. Sometimes you aren't going to know how to do something but you have to try to do it anyway. Sometimes, you're going to try and fail, but that just means you learned one way NOT to do it. You have to keep trying until you get it right. Do you know what I mean?" I didn't in the least, but it seemed like nodding my head yes in a thoughtful manner was the mature thing to do. I solemnly bobbed my noggin twice and then said "Uh huh!" He took me by the hand and led me back outside and told me to try again. I told myself that I couldn't be scared. I had to prove to Dad and Whitney that I could do it. I climbed a top of that shiny pink bike and timidly propped myself up off the kick stand. With a slight push from my dad, I gained a little momentum and started to pedal. "Hey," I thought out loud, "this isn't that bad!" I was riding a two wheeler all by myself and it only took me two tries!

I fell many times that day, and many more times in the years that followed, but I will never forget the lesson my father taught me on the warm summer afternoon: You are only a true Big Kid when you realize that there is no fun in giving up.