Learning How to Ride a Bike in the City

Step 1: Figure out your child (I’m still working on that).

Step 2: Figure out how your child learns dangerous tasks best. This I actually know.  When M-ito learned how to walk he held on to tables, chairs, and sofas, not letting go of anything or anybody until he could walk without falling. He took a long time to do this and my back is still complaining from the process. But when he walked he didn’t fall down.

Step 3: Training Wheels. Knowing your child is like M-ito – cautious, careful, determined – get him a bike with training wheels. For us the training wheels lasted about two years, perhaps a bit longer. Then M-ito said to take them off. Peer pressure kicked in. At the age of 6 and a 1/2 a good number of his friends were already riding without training wheels so my son said, “take them off.”

Step 4: Pad him up. We bought knees guards, elbow guards, and hand guards, padded him up and set out for a park, expecting to be riding without any problem by the time we got home.

Step 5: Find a park. We used the Bulova park on the other side of our hood because few people go there and there’s a big open b-ball soccer area in the back usually with no one in it.

Step 6: Make a few trial runs. I held on to his seat and ran with him four or five stretches, letting go for a few yards at the end. My son yelled, “Dad-dito, don’t let go!” after each run. He kept his gaze down and had a hard time coordinating his movements and balance while a voice in his head was probably screaming “I’m going to die!” It’s a tough multi-task. Sweat pouring off him, and me, we gave up – him dissapointed in himself and me in myself. What kind of father was I? This should be easy. Two of M-ito’s friends learned in 1 afternoon. They took off and started riding – no pads, no trial runs, nothing. If you don’t understand how this could happen then just go back to step 1 & 2 above.

Step 7: Have a personal aside about your own process when you were a kid. I learned to ride with my brother who was a year older than me. What I remember of the experience was sketchy but contained the following: 1) my brother was there and he already could ride. 2) my brother was a part of the process of helping me to learn. 3) someone (might have been my brother) pushed me down a long driveway while I pedalled like mad. 4) the someone let go and I went a few yards without any help. 5) I knew I could ride on my own in those few seconds because I found my balance. 6) I then crashed and got a few good scrapes on my legs and arms. 7) I crashed a lot but seemed to have gotten the hang of it after that first run. Note: I don’t remember training wheels or instruction – perhpas there was more but I blocked it out.

Step 8: Try again and again. We tried the same process two more times at a closer park – each time we made fewer and fewer runs until the fourth overall attempt (one month later) brought us to a standstill. My son’s downcast gaze told it all. We were both defeated. A leap of faith and skill was needed and neither one of us could provide it.

Step 9: Talk to Mom-ita. Why you might ask? Because Mom-ita knows these kinds of things – or at least how to solve them. So she googled and found an article that gave us the clues we needed.

Step 10: Come up with a plan. We developed a plan. Well, Mom-ita did which she explained to me, which I then implemented by doing the technical work of changing what M-ito’s bike looked like. I was glad to be of use.

Step 11: Tell your child. We sat M-ito down and said we had a plan that would help him get up and going. We said he needed some help and we had just the help he needed. It made him smile with renewed hope. He said he’d try it – meaning what-ever we came up with.

Step 12: Lower the Seat. So we lowered the seat first so his feet could touch the ground easily. Just like those bikes that all the three year olds have now – not available at the time my son was that age – that are made of wood and just glide – they have no pedals. They’re brilliant.

Step 13: Practice. Then we rode everywhere – and I mean everywhere – with the seat lowered and it was better but… we needed to take one more step.

Step 14: Take off the pedals. Oh yeah. That did the trick. With the pedals there were no bruises on the ankles, grease marks on the calves, or scrapes from the pedal’s traction grips. He rode everywhere. I jogged alongside him or walked. He practiced his balance and mutitasking. I could tell the voice in his head that said, “I’m going to die!” while he rode was getting softer.

Step 15: Have patience. This lasted two more months. I think it could have lasted longer but fate intervened.

Step 16: Go somewhere with lots of down-hills with friends who already ride without training wheels. So we went on vacation with friends who have two kids older than M-ito. We camped a few days as part of the vacation. On the campground the dirt roads and down-hills allowed M-ito to go fast and forced him to look ahead, not down, to multi-task making decisions of balance, speed, and brake-power very quickly. After two days, he was ready. One of his friends said, “M-ito, put the pedals back on. You can do it.” That afternoon he came to me and said that he was ready.

Step 17: Put the pedals back on. So the pedals were put back on. I stood next to my son and he pushed off, wobbled at first then went down hill, found his balance and braked after about ten yards. He looked back up the hill at Mom-ita and me and smiled. Within five minutes he was riding everywhere. I guess you could say he learned how to ride in a few minutes. Two years, four months and a few minutes.

Step 18: Put on your running shoes. Now, of course, you have to keep up.

One Hand Clapping

I took M-ito to work with me today. Mom-ita was working, teaching a consulting gig, and out all day. I had work that had to be done so I couldn’t take the day off. We walked to the express station – what is normally a fifteen minute walk – in half an hour. The trains were fast though, and instead of 11am I made it in by 10:15.

He sat in my office for almost three hours, reading a Pokemon Manga and playing games on my iPhone. He’s so good. He even waved, his small, shy, bent-elbow wave, to everyone I introduced him too. They smiled back at him.

We had lunch and walked about twenty blocks downtown to the comics store, Forbidden Planet. I had him avoid all the “adult” sections and the “monster” sections. He bought two ugly dolls with his allowed funds, eyeballing the USS Enterprise model and a Godzilla action figure.

On the R train home, both of us exhausted, nodding a little, I took out a book of Zen Koans I’d been reading (Zen Flesh, Zen Bones) and asked M-ito if he wanted me to read him some stories that were like puzzles.

He said, “Sure.”

I told him the story of the Zen Master who had a young student who wanted to the master to give him a koan to help him to study and learn. The master asked him if he knew the sound of two hands clapping and the student said, “Yes.” Then he asked him, “What’s the sound of one hand?” The student went back and forth over a year coming up with answers like, the wind, an owl hooting, the breath and each time the master said, “No. Come back when you have figured it out.”

Well… I only got to the first time the master asked, “What’s the sound of one hand clapping,” when M-ito interrupted me and said, “there is no sound.” My mouth hung open for a moment. Then I shut it and continued the story, ending at the same place my son had already been to, camped out at, and completed. It took the student a year. It took my son about three seconds.

The Men’s Room Rag

It’s an hour before M-ito’s dance recital and we’re rounding the corner of the hall in his school that leads to the bathroom. M-ito has to go – bad. we dash the last twenty yards as if in a race. There are two doors, one the men’s room, one the woman’s. M-ito hesitates and looks back at me. He has taken a step towards the woman’s room. Then, as if he realizes it’s me and not Mom-ita, he hangs his head and goes over to the men’s room.

“I guess I have to use the men’s room,” he says between gritted teeth, then scurries into the dark room where urinals, pee on toilet seats and toilet paper on the floor rule. “I hate this bathroom,” he says softly.

I have to tell M-ito to wait at the stall door while I maneuver past him (it’s a very tight fit) with a wet paper towel to wash off the toilet seat which is, indeed, covered with other boy’s pee. I think some gets on my pants leg. I dry the seat while M-ito hops from foot to foot. 

“It’s coming Dad-dito, hurry!” he says, scrinching up his face into a knot.

“Done,” I say as I flatten myself against the stall wall and M-ito spins to sit on a now clean and urine-less seat. I crouch down inches from M-ito as he relieves himself, my back pressed against the door.

“Why,” he asks me, “is the boys’ bathroom such a mess? Why is it so dirty and why is there no light? It needs to have light.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Boys tend to make a mess in here. They pee all over the toilet seats and throw their paper on the floor.”

“Why do they do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“I wish you were Mom-ita so I could go in the girl’s room. It’s so clean and light in there. And it doesn’t smell bad like it does in here.”

“I understand,” I say, my feelings not hurt at all. “I’d rather be in there too.”

“They should put a light right over our head so we could see,” he says looking up, his face in shadow. “Or right here on the wall. Why don’t they do that?”

“I don’t know, son.”

Ten minutes later, M-ito is lighter, walking easier, and still drying his hands on his pants legs as we walk back to the playground for another fifteen minutes of Pokémon play with his friend, Willito. Then it’s time for his ballet recital.

“Feel better?” I ask.

He nods and runs to his friend after we cross the street.

Mixed Metaphors – Snow and S-t-o-o-p-i-d

I left early from work. There was snow – over 6 inches. I still had plenty of work to do but the snow was calling me. My son was calling me, even though he hasn’t figured out how to dial the phone yet. Besides, how many snow days were we going to get this winter? School was closed and he was home, waiting to go outside. I figured it was the last chance for a sled ride. So I left work and we fought trying to get out of the apartment because that’s what we do these days. The ten feet to the front door from the coat stand is still the longest, slowest ten feet of my life. First we put on the socks. Then we adjust the socks. Then we put on the shoes. Then we adjust the socks in the shoes and take the shoes off because they don’t “feel right.” Then we put on the shoes and look for the sweatshirt. We put on the sweatshirt one arm at a time. Then we do the zipper. Then we adjust the shoes again because those socks are slipping down. Then we put on the coat. Then we zipper the coat. Then argue over whether we need to wear the hat. It’s 20 degrees out and he has to wear the hat. Then there are tears. Then the hat goes on. Then the gloves, one at a time. Then the scarf. Then, I’m sweating because all this time I’ve been fully dressed. Can you hear my silent scream? But, we made it to the park in Woodside and we hit the slopes and trudged through the snow and laughed and laughed and his giggle was like a balm to all the tension of leaving work early and the fight over leaving the apartment. And his gap toothed smile is from a picture postcard. We went down double on the inflatable sled maybe a dozen times and drank hot chocolate Mom-ita had packed for us. It was just about perfect.

There was one blemish. A group of 13-15 year old boys were playing and cursing near the top of the sledding ramp and we had to go through them to get to our last ride of the afternoon. One of the boys hit his friend when he cursed after noticing my son within earshot. “Watch the language,” said to his friend. They let us go ahead of them. M-ito took it all in and filed it away for reference.

We got home as it was getting dark. Mom-ita was waiting for us and asked us about our afternoon.

M-ito told her about the boys and their cursing.”

“Do you know what cursing is?” Mom-ita asked him.

“No Mom-ita,” he said. I’d used the word in explaining what the boys had been saying and doing.

“Well, you know the word s-t-o-o-p-i-d?” Mom-ita asked. That’s how M-ito has spelled it since he first learned from us that it was a bad word and not to be used at all. So, he’d spell it when he wanted to tell us he’d heard someone use it and never used the word himself.

“Yes,” he said.

“Well,” Mom-ita said, “its worse than that.”

“You mean like idiot, Mom-ita?

Mom-ita laughed. “Yeah, like idiot.”

It was the perfect end to a perfect day.

The Pink Leotard

Maybe if it was blue the leotard would have been in my laundry.

Ballet started last week and M-ito is in a class with three older girls (7, 8, and 9 years old). He’s the only boy. He’s really enjoying himself and his teacher says he’s doing wonderfully. I made sure I could come home early from work last week and this week so that I could be there to take him to his first classes. He’s growing out of his leotard and black leggings. My son is growing. Everybody comments on how tall he has grown. 

On Monday I had to get his ballet clothes from the laundromat – we’ve been having it picked up and delivered lately – a real luxury since it’s expensive, but I haven’t had the energy lately to do it all myself. I couldn’t have the clothes delivered in time to give M-ito his ballet clothes so I had to stop at the laundromat and get those two pieces, his leotard and his black leggings and bring them to him before his class. We need to get new ones – a second pair but we haven’t gotten around to it yet. At the laundromat I couldn’t find his leotard. It’s pink. The owner asked me, after I’d looked through the pile of beautifully folded clothes and not been able to find it, to describe it. I did and a light went off above her head. 

“I’m sorry,” she said in her broken English. “My worker thought this was another families , in your bag by mistake, and we put it in their laundry. They have a little girl.”

“No,” I said, still smiling. “It’s my son’s. He dances ballet. It’s a little small, since he’s grown so much over the summer, but it’s his.”

She nodded and handed me his leotard. “I’m sorry.”

Later, waiting for his class to begin, M-ito and I sit on the couch outside the music room. He leans against my side. I wrap my arm around him. We’re in the middle of watching Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back. I have to tell him about Luke loosing his arm in his fight with Darth Vader, so he’s not too scared to watch it. I’m wondering how I’m going to explain this to him. 

His teacher opens the door and smiles at M-ito and Liqua, an eight year old girl he’s dancing with. His teacher has ten little girls behind her ready to go to their parents, all ages 4-6. M-ito’s grown out of that group.

“Liqua and M-ito,” the teacher says. “You can go in and start stretching while I take the rest of the kids downstairs to their after-school classroom.”

M-ito gives her a big smile, looks at Liqua and runs into the room with her, dropping down into their first stretch – what I would call upavista konasana if it was a yoga class. His teacher returns with her two other students and the door closes behind her. I can hear her voice through the door. Class, once again, has begun.

Dad-dito’s B-day

I fenced this morning at HB studio, where I used to help teach two stage fencing classes - frequently (weekly) – and which I now teach (since M-ito was born) infrequently – ie: when I can grab a long lunch from my job and not have to pick M-ito up from school on that day. I fenced three hours – what seems like, and is, a true luxury. I’m achy and sore from swinging a sword and teaching and lunging first with rapier then smallsword. I have a big smile on my face. I love this kind of thing.

Afterwards I came back to Jackson heights and I picked up M-ito and Mom-ita and took him to his last swimming class of the season. He takes individual lessons at Saf-T-Swim on Long Island – where he has truly learned to swim incredibly well. Mom-ita found that it cost almost as much for half hour individual lessons in Westbury (40 minute drive from home) as it was to take a group class here in our neighborhood. Individual lessons it has been and it has paid off very well with a confident swimmer and a boy who loves to be in the water. I watched him laugh and joke with his instructor, then swim the crawl, the back stroke, the elementary back stroke, the breast stroke, dive, and do all kinds of search and recover underwater tricks. 

We ate dinner at a small Italian Restaurant in Mineola on the less formal pizza side of the establishment. M-ito explaining to me with a diagram where I need to sit tomorrow night at the Shiros in Atlas Park (a Japanese restaurant where they cook at your table) so that I don’t get burned by the cooking oil – which happened to him when he was there last and is also the reason he won’t return. So he won’t be coming with us as it’s date night for Dad-dito and Mom-ita – the first one we’ve had in almost six months.

Sitting in our kitchen, M-ito and I shared a blondie we bought from the Ambrosia bakery folks at their table at the Food Coop – Farm Spot, and laughed as he farted and I made silly noises to complement him. Mom-ita rolled her eyes at us while she finished the dishes. No dishes today for the birthday boy.

I put M-ito to bed, reading him the story of Stick Burr (and replacing Butt with Burr whenever I could – just to make M-ito laugh and giggle, then correct me) a comic book format favorite. We fell asleep together.

Mom-ita woke me up an hour later so I could do my prepare for yoga class in the morning. Writing this blog entry caps off, what for me, has been just about a perfect day.

Lost and Found

We were at the Medieval Fair, Poppi in his archers outfit, having successfully assaulted the castle wall at Sands Point, was resting next to us, leaning on his bow, the back of his next sunburned from his day at the archery booth. A woman across the green started to scream. She ran ten yards or so then turned around and ran back. She screamed again and I realized what she was screaming – the name of her child. She ran back again two more times, screaming in a way that sent shivers through me and Mom-ita.

She lost her son, rippled through the crowd and we all started looking at knee level for a child who seemed not to fit – who seemed to be lost. I could feel her panic. I’ve been there a few times myself and I never get used to it. M-ito is right next to me and then, when I go to get my change from the cashier I look down and he’s gone. I can feel the panic in my gut. Where is he? Where did he go? Then I start shouting his name with that same gutteral sound that the woman was using again and again.

She brought her hands to her head and screamed. A knight in a golf cart came by to help her look and cover more ground. They rolled down to the castle wall and back up – her screams punctuating the air with panic and fear and terror, her hands pounding the dashboard when they weren’t at her head.

A few moments later they found her boy. I saw them hugging and crying together. I pulled M-ito a little closer to me, his presence reassuring – perhaps to us both.

First Bicycle

M-ito went through two tricycles – neither one of which he used much except on the floor of our apartment and for climbing on to get to the comfy chair from the back (it’s a kind of household mount everest). Mostly he wasn’t interested in them. He didn’t seem to have the drive to drive the three wheels. I shrugged and moved on as did Mom-ita. 

Last week he said he wanted a bike with training wheels. Yesterday, he still wanted one and said he wanted to ride it around all over the place. We said he could ride it on the sidewalk and at the park. That’s how deals are made. 

I watched him pick out his own bike last evening. He had five choices and it wasn’t easy. I watched him unable to choose between cool colors and a bell. The right bike would have had a bell, a back rack, a hand brake (hey they have them for kids these days), red in color, and just the right feeling. He sat on each bike at least three times and rode them back and forth across the floor of Spokesman Cycles (a bike store at Atlas Mall). The staff (both young kids and the manager) were excellent. They answered questions. They raised and lowered seats. They brought out all their different bells for M-ito to look at. They searched for red tassles and said they’d order them for us when they found out they were out. Did I mention they let him ride all over the floor?  

Amidst all this, M-ito looked and watched and rode. I didn’t want him to rush. Sometimes I notice, under pressure, he will simply choose something that is closest because he can’t decide. I’ve seen him in agony over which color plastic frog to buy then take home a color that he wished he hadn’t. This time I didn’t want him to rush. I wanted him to really choose, to breathe and make a choice that he knew was right from the tip of his head to ends of his toes. Se we looked at bikes for 45 minutes. He narrowed it down to two. He tried them out again, settled his hands on his hips, looked at us with a big question in his eyes then settled in and nodded, “Yes, this one.”

It’s orange, has triangle brace training wheels, a hand brake, some room to grow, a bell with a horse on it, red tassels on order, and that special something that only a six year old boy can see. It’s that something that speaks of adventures riding across sidewalks, speeding down hills, coasting into school, catching bugs between his teeth, and rescuing wild animals with.

I was so proud of him.

Then on the way out, he almost ran into a wall and used my foot as a brake. He smiled a grin from ear to ear the whole time. So it goes. 

Sitting on the Bench

I never used to sit on the bench. Oh, sure in baseball when I was 8 and couldn’t catch a ball if my life depended upon it, and they stuck me in right field only when the coach had to play me, as he had to play all his players at least three innings – and I only played three innings a game for a long time until I had the miracle happen and I caught a ball – well… I sat on the bench. But with M-ito, I have always been up and playing with him, watching him to make sure he didn’t fall, chasing him up and down the playground structures, sliding down the poles before him and creating a safe net for him to fall into. I have felt the change happening. I’ve felt the pull of the bench with my tired bones. It’s been happening a little bit at a time all year. Less, “Dad-dito can you play with me,” and more, “Stay here.”

Then, a few days ago I was at the park with him and a few of his kindergarten friends – one of our friends was watching M-ito and I met them there after I finished work. I said hello to my son with a wave when I arrived and he waved back but went right back to chasing his friends. I sat on the bench with two of M-ito’s friend’s moms and talked to them with one eye peeled for M-ito.

When the two friends left half an hour later and it was only M-ito and me and another friend with a babysitter, I got up to play a little with him. M-ito directed me back to the bench.

“Can I play a little longer?” he asked me.

“Sure,” I said, sitting back down.

He guided me there as if to say, You sit there and watch.

I sat back down and another dad sat down next to me. He was holding an infant, maybe eight months old, in his arms, a bit uncomfortably. He was watching an older child from there and only barely aware of the bundle in his arms. I nodded to him. He didn’t notice. 

M-ito will still ask me to play with him when no other kids are around. But we’ve definitely turned a corner. I’m a dad-dito who is no longer needed as a full-time play thing, when friends are around. I’m both sad and relieved, at the same time. Sad, because an era has passed and I feel that loss deeply. Relieved, because so many times at the park I just want to sit down and talk to other parents for a little while – talk and rest – and now I can. What a strange mix of emotions to be filled with while my little boy plays and grows.

What’s in Ned’s Head?

Of all the gifts that M-ito received – and as the only child in our combined families to date he received a lot – What’s in Ned’s Head? takes the prize so far as his favorite, followed by The Story Book by fundex. Oh there’s lots of others he plays with but these seem to be the ones he spends the most time with and the one’s he asks me to play the most. It’s only been three days but patterns have already been set. Why is Ned’s Head so interesting to him? Well, first there’s the gross-out factor. You stick your hand inside a large head – from either the ears or the nostrils – and search for items inside like bird poop, a used lollipop, barf, a used q-tip, a tooth, a brain, an alien, or a dirty diaper. That’s about all you have to say as far as the why is concerned. They even give you additional blank cards (the card you pick directs you to search for a particular object each round) so you can add your own stuff to Ned’s Head. M-ito has so far added a rubber snake, a rubber lizard, a pterodactyl skeleton, and a ladybug. It doesn’t seem to matter who wins (finds their object first) to M-ito. He simply likes to dig inside the head for treasure. Fundex comes up with a winner again.The second game, The Story Book Game, is a card game that contains a deck of 54 cards with items/people on it like a hammer, a singer, a little man, a lobster, etc… Each person picks a card and has to use the card in the story the players are creating, card by card. Each player has to retell the story correctly and in order up to that point then add his/her own card to the mix. A recent example from a game this morning goes like this, “There once was a hammer that fell into a well and needed a rope to get out. It was friends with a singer who also needed a rope to fix her microphone. Before she could fix it she got hungry and ate a hamburger and a lobster. But before she could eat the lobster a mouse came along and carried it away…” You get the idea. So far we’ve made it up to fifteen cards. M-ito wants to make it to all 54.