A few weeks ago, I was gearing up for the most intense bike ride of my life.
We’re talking the ultimate bike ride–a full-on bike train, if you will, that consists of one adult-size bike, one “junior” tag-along bike that attaches to the big bike for Ada, and topped off with a trailer hauling the remaining two children to that.
It’s about, oh say, 40 pounds of wobbly “help” from Ada on the tag-along and an additional 50 pounds of deadweight from the trailer.
And it makes for one killer ride.
Like a lot of things in parenting, we work as a team.
But not today.
As Ben prepared to mow the lawn and work around the house, I decided it was time to brave the bike.
All by myself.
It’s a short ride over to my mom’s house, just a few miles down the road (where she lives with a pool, I might add), but the hills are killer and to be perfectly honest with you, there are times when I’ve stopped and walked just riding by myself. Lance Armstrong, I am not.
Needless to say, the thought of embarking on the uphill ride, with all three children in the summer heart, all by myself, for the first time ever, was daunting.
I sat on the front porch with Ada, tying my shoes and trying to talk myself into the ride that lay ahead when I started to lose my motivation.
“I don’t know, Ada,” I said. “I”m nervous about this. What if I’m not strong enough to make it?”
Without missing a beat, my five-year-old put her hands on her hips and peered at me resolutely under her bright pink Barbie bicycle helmet.
“Mama,” she reprimanded me sternly.
“What if you are?”
I made it all the way without stopping.