Tripping Down Amnesia Alley

Yesterday, Sammy asked me if he could ride his bike. I’m used to requests for juice, snacks, particular television programs, even lunch at 9:30 AM, but this one was not of the typical litany, so I was a little thrown. Not one to deny my child’s desire for physical activity (once I’d noticed that the cloud cover was keeping the temperature below scorching), I benevolently agreed, even though I was still in my workout clothes (not fit for public viewing, as in I Will Sear Your Eyeballs With My Short Shorts) and I’d have to plop the Munchkin in the stroller to go along. I know, I’m the World’s Best Mom.

So, I buckled on his helmet (Paragon of Safety am I) and off we went. I figured he could do donuts in the parking lot of the school across the street for awhile. But that didn’t hold his interest too long. I had to nix his plans to hit the school playground, as it was occupied by kids actually going to school, but then he had a better idea. He wanted to Ride the Alleys. Apparently, this is something he and he father do. We went down our own alley, which I though was a very gracious thing for me to allow, but wasn’t exactly enough for our intrepid biker boy. The sky was threatening to actually rain, and I wasn’t keen on following a slightly unwieldy 4 year old on a bike down unknown alleyways pushing a stroller with a child trying to Houdini her way out. So I scratched that idea, too.

The result: a dramatic fish flop face first into the lawn of his best friend’s house. All you could see was helmet and feet.

We finally made it home, but it took several hissed threats suggestions and the promise of cookies for redeemed behavior.

In retrospect, part of me can’t blame him (I will not be admitting this to Sammy before he can shave). Much like my love of stairs, I seemed to have passed down an affection for alleys to my son. When I was a kid, the alley was where my friends and I rode bikes, played catch, and imagined our own kid nation. There was a spot in the alley a few houses down from mine where rain water would form a pool (a disgusting, germ filled, stinky pool I now see) that, to my 8 year old self, was an oasis in the woods. It was the base of our operations for many years, our very own Terabithia. Of course, we’d have to scatter for cars splashing through our hideaway.

While we were house hunting, potential domiciles invariably got docked points if they didn’t have rear entry garages services by alleys.

Evidently, what I have passed down is a tendency toward delusion that probably requires intervention. Sorry, kid.

Could you deny this kid a ride? Seriously, how cute is the helmet?