Tag Archives: single parenting

“It’s Like Riding a Bike”

bike“I think it would be nice,” my mom starts in while the girls are over this weekend, “if we could go on a family bike ride like we used to when you were little.”

I listen. I’m 31, and I’ve been doing this single dad thing for about four months now. I’ve gotten to be a pretty good listener.

The trouble is that Aurie and Kiera never really learned to ride their bikes. There never seemed to be any time to teach them. Aurie’s bike, which she has outgrown, still has the training wheels on. Kiera’s bike, also much too small for her, is sitting in my storage unit (my chateau, so to speak).

“Kiera ought to be able to use Aurie’s bike,” I wager.

So we pull around Aurie’s old steel horse from the side of the house. It’s still in pretty good shape. Schwinns are like that. A little air in the tires, a little adjustment to the seat, and it’s good as new.

My parents’ property sits on a cul de sac. This is fortuitous for children riding bikes or playing ball because there is seldom any traffic. Soon enough, Kiera is tearing around on her big sister’s bike. It takes my dad about five minutes to get outside with his camera and start taking pictures. There is something magical about watching a child learn this, after all. It’s a rite of passage without being a loss of innocence, and that’s a truly beautiful thing.

I take a few pictures and videos myself.

But the real rite of passage comes when we brave the local Walmart and pick up a new bike for Aurie. It’s 24” with no training wheels—too big for my daughter to sit on the seat with her feet planted on the ground.

“They grow like weeds,” my mom says. “You don’t want to go any smaller than this one.”

Again, I listen.

We fold back the seats on my Honda deathtrap and cram the bike inside. This is no small task with the girls, but we manage. My mom and I explain to Aurie that this is something of a special occasion. As far as either of us can remember, no one ever got a new bike outside of birthdays or Christmases.

Aurie is stoked to have a new bike, but scared because there are no training wheels. This is especially true because we bought helmets (one for each girl), knee pads, and elbow pads. Once we’re back and she suits up, though, she makes a Tron reference and is ready to try.

troncycle

I have to laugh. My kids are cool.

My mom lets me try to teach Aurie to balance and peddle for about 45 minutes. She’s done this with four kids of her own, running up and down the block, holding onto seats and handle bars for dear life. In a way, this is becoming a rite of passage for me, too. I’m pretty fit from four months of hitting the gym and eating better, so the cardio isn’t that bad. On the other hand, Aurie is tall for her age and weighs about 92 pounds. When she leans the wrong way at 10 mph, I have to physically course correct her without planting my feet, or she’ll fall. I liken this to Conan redirecting charging stallions on foot by sheer brute force, but it really isn’t half that impressive.

Conan vs Horse

Damn, I wish we had done this when she was five. I won’t make the same mistake with Kiera.

The neighbor comes out and offers his advice. My mom comes out and has a whole step-by-step system for what Aurie should do that involves starting at the curb.

Friggin’ mechanics and math majors. My daughter’s brain doesn’t work like that—maybe because neither my brain nor her mother’s brain works like that. This is a rite of passage. Aurie has to feel the balance. It’s not something I can do for her. It’s not something anyone can control with their steps or processes or methods.

This is the part where I stop listening.

Aurie has to experience the freedom for herself.

She also needs that seat lowered, I realize, so my dad and I take care of that while I pound a Vitamin Water.

After what seems like the umpteenth time running with her, even though the handle bars aren’t straight and her balance isn’t perfect, I let go. I’m ready to leap for that seat, but she doesn’t fall. I count to three and grab hold again.

She keeps peddling and doesn’t even notice.

I tell her to stop ahead at the stop sign, and I let go again. This time, I try to let her see that I’m running beside her. She doesn’t catch on, and I grab hold of the bike again when she hits the brakes because I’m afraid that she’s going to fall.

This goes on a few times before I announce to her:

“Aurie, look at your shadow.”

The afternoon light throws our silhouettes ahead of us, and my daughter can see herself riding and Daddy sprinting beside her without one finger on her bike.

“I’m doing it by myself?” she shrieks. “I’m doing it by myself!”

“You have been for a while!” I manage between pants.

I’m seriously pretty tired by this point.

We discuss turning and stopping and how to get out of trouble without dropping the bike. I use martial arts terms like “horse stance” because we’ve both studied karate.

Mr_-Miyagi-and-Daniel-The-Karate-Kid

What? This is a teacher thing. Connect to prior knowledge.

Then, elated and confident, my beaming daughter runs my ass ragged all over the neighborhood. My parents think this is hilarious.

Karma, they laugh.

The truth is I’m just happy to be healthy enough to do this for Aurie.

Before Aurie got on her new bike, my mom told her it would probably take a week to get it right, and not to be discouraged. She learned in about two hours. After about three hours, my butt was planted on the seat of a loaner bike, peddling beside her. We did go on that family bike ride—Aurie and I in the lead, Kiera and my parents following behind.

You never know, can’t truly appreciate, how good your parents were to you until you go through something like this.

For me, the hardest part, far more difficult than all the running and Conan course correcting, was letting go of my daughter for just three seconds.

The best part was riding beside her and seeing her smile.

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My Match.com Experience

Online dating

At the urging of various friends and family members who’ve insisted that I need to “get over it” and start dating again, I posted a profile to Match.com (since deleted, before you go looking). Doing this made sense on some level because most of my time is tied up with children and words, and most of the women I’m meeting these days are cropping up on social media sites.

Creating my profile took maybe a half an hour. Soon enough, I was tossed into a digital meat market of nearly identical profiles punctuated here and there by second hand problems. It seems like most women on Match are “looking for their partner in crime”, “strong and independent”, and pretending to like football a hell of a lot more than most men I know.

Online dating sites still carry the reputation of being populated by weirdos. I pretty much ignored this stigma because I met the mother of my children on the Internet back in the 90’s when this concept was new and even more frowned upon.

Things certainly have changed, but not necessarily for the better.

For starters, we have people in their 30’s and 40’s taking throwback MySpace pictures like this:

I can take pictures with mirrors! Whee!

I can take pictures with mirrors! Whee! And no one will ever tell this is the staff bathroom!

Then, there’s the obligatory shot wherein one pretends (I hope!) to drive a car for no reason:

Low-Ride-Er... Rollin' in mah Honda deathtrap...

Rollin’ hard in mah Honda deathtrap… So GANGSTA!!

Let’s not forget the grotesque image of the potential dating candidate doing something random and weird to attempt to appear fun and interesting:

Carl's Jr. Commercial

Check out my personal Carl’s Jr. fish sandwich commercial! Gave me worms…

In my week on Match, I was stalked by women in their late 40’s, “winked at” by people who disappear off the site in the next twenty-four hours, shunned like Hester friggin’ Prynne for having two children at age 30, approached by someone trying to run an international gold scam (I swear I’m not making this up!), and stalked by a wannabe Russian mail-order bride that still e-mails me in broken English and writes as if she has known me for years and is passionately in love with me.

Additionally, I went on one date. Prior to doing this, I texted one of my best friends, who has been through a divorce and remarried, and told him I was having second thoughts about going. I explained that I felt like a traitor to my family. He explained to me in no uncertain terms that it was just a date and that I was being a sissy la-la.

So I went.

Being a paragon of chivalry in this postmodern world, I allowed my date to pick the time and place. I, of course, would pay for everything. I had to borrow a car because my Honda deathtrap is even less dateable than I am at present, and when I arrived at the scene, it was practically rained out. I ended up meeting my date in a cramped, smoky bar that was so loud we couldn’t hear ourselves talk.

In retrospect, this was the best part of the evening. Hands down.

So she and I get into my (my mom’s) chariot to get out of the rain. In the space between pulling out of the pub scene and finding a place to eat, I ask her some basic questions that weren’t addressed on her profile.

Like, for example, what she does for a living.

She refuses to answer this question, stating that this information is normally reserved for the third or fourth date. She’s a college graduate too, so I figured this would be small talk.

Weird, right?

At about this point, I notice that she is more nervous than I am. This seems odd to me as well, as this is the first time I’ve been on a date with anyone but my ex in nearly a decade, and my date has candidly told me that I am her 22nd Match.com guy. No, not 22 dates, she explains. Many more dates than that. 22 guys.

This is pretty much the only thing she’s willing to talk about other than a mutual teacher we had in high school (we went to different schools, but apparently he gets around) who she thought was hot. This same teacher, who I once looked up to, had an affair with a 17-year-old student despite being married and having two beautiful children.

My date thinks it’s strange that I, as a teacher, am bothered by this. She also thinks my profile is “unappealing” because I was honest about my personality and didn’t take pictures in a nice suit.

The coup de grace, of course, is when she pulls out a journal (manifesto?) of handwritten notes taken over every e-mail she’s received via Match.com in the past two years. She proudly shows me the number of views she’s had daily since creating her profile, which are scrawled in the margins.

“Check, please!”

So yeah, I lasted about a week on Match. It would have been nice to get a refund for the two+ months I paid for in advance, but the experience was invaluable. In addition to confirming for the umpteenth time that women are crazy, I learned that I’m just not ready to do this again.

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