Floating Upstream: Sunday Slivers, 5/22/11: On two wheels

Not Forgotten

by Sheila Paca

I learned to ride
the two wheel bicycle
with my father.
He oiled the chain
clothes-pinned playing cards
to the spokes, put on the basket
to carry my lunch.
By his side, I learned balance
and took on speed
centered behind the wide
handlebars, my hands
on the white grips
my feet pedaling.
One moment he was
holding me up
and the next moment
although I didn't know it
he had let go.
When I wobbled, suddenly
afraid, he yelled keep going—
keep going!
Beneath the trees in the driveway
the distance increasing between us
I eventually rode until he was out of sight.
I counted on him.

That he could hold me was a given
that he could release me was a gift.

It just so happened that my beloved The Writer's Almanac published this beautiful poem about learning to ride a bike days before our first-born figured out how to balance on two wheels himself, after being gently released by his gentle father.

A year ago, when we first gave him this bike with training wheels, he feared going down from the sidewalk to the road because it was "too steep." Two weeks ago he asked us to take off the training wheels and the pedals, because he had tried a small balance bike at REI and he thought it was a good idea. We, who had been skeptical about balance bikes being just another ruse to get you to spend money on yet one more piece of kid equipment, are now fully sold on the idea. When Sava asked us to put the pedals back on Saturday it took him, by his dad's account, thirty seconds before he took off biking on his own. Given this timid boy for whom everything physical takes indefinite time and infinite patience, it was nothing short of a miracle to see him pedaling down the road with unfeigned confidence, after virtually zero instruction. He's been cruising non-stop ever since, and it's not obvious who is more proud of him--we or he.

Ever since he was an infant, Sava has walked to the beat of his own very unique drum. He can't be talked into doing something for which he is not ready, and encouragement--however gentle and loving--only serves to dissuade him from the task at hand. He does best when allowed to follow his own instincts, and his instincts for most things, we've now learned, are pretty good. Exhibit A: his desire to turn a regular bike into a balance bike, when training wheels had obviously failed to do the job.

We've had a rough couple of weeks with Sava as, in preparation for his endoscopy in mid-June, we've subjected him to repeated 'exposure' to all of the foods of which he's been mostly deprived since he was a year old. He's done better than expected in some respects, but his appetite has taken an unmistakable plunge, and we've been battling food at almost every meal. It was nice, at the start of this low-key weekend, to be reminded by watching him figure out how to ride his bike that we have a wonderful boy whom everyone admires and who, when left to his own devices, figures out unfailingly what is best for him. He is sweet, thoughtful, and kind. He hears and remembers everything. He wants to be liked and likes everyone who approaches life with a sense of humor. He takes care of his sister better than we could have ever imagined a five-year old could.

bad picture but so dear: he is helping, at her request, put her 'fancy' shoes on

and helping put on "her" helmet

watching a snail with Phoebe

He's learned how to be comfortable with and vocal about his boundaries, and he'll tell kids that he does not like them doing something, or that he himself does not want to do it, thanks largely to the wonderful teachers at his preschool, who have given him both "words" and "voice."

When I tell our neighbors, whose little boy has trouble adjusting to daycare, that at two Sava threw up multiple times each day and went sleepless for a full week when we tried to put him in a home-based daycare with twelve children and three adults, they look at him, then look at me, and, I am pretty sure, conclude that I am crazy. It does not look likely that this affable, giggly, playful five-year old could have been the heart-breakingly difficult two-year old of whom I speak. It does not seem possible that he could have changed this much.

But indeed he has, and there is an adoring, worshiping sister to prove it.

We all went to Open House at Children's Corner this week,

and came home with Sava's masterpiece of the year, an autobiography of sorts called Building Bumper. It's the sort of thing that one wants to keep and carry hidden but snug under one's shirt forever, even though it means nothing to anyone but us the parents, and possibly may mean something to Sava when he grows up (but likely won't):

My favorites? He dedicated it "to my mom and dad." On the page subtitled by teacher Ian "Favorite Things to Do," Bax Sava, which has to stand for "Bad Sava," hovers over a hilarious self-portrait and the blank statement, I am in front of my house, shooting a log. And on the next page, "I want to be a trolly driver when I grow up."

He does want to be a trolley driver. And a train engineer. And an astronomer. And he wants to marry Raya.

*****

So, this post was supposed to be all about reading with my kids, on which subject I've meant to expound for quite a while, but it is late Sunday night, the kids are under the weather again, and I have Peggy Orenstein's book on the perils of "girlie girl culture" awaiting me. So, what is left is photos of her who for the last hour has been singing over the monitor instead of sleeping, doing cover versions of everything from "Baa Baa Black Sheep" to "Frere Jacques."

She asked me to read "Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub" about twelve times tonight, and then proceeded, five minutes later, to recite it as well as her toddler lisp allows. It doesn't cease to astonish me that Raya knows a relatively small number of English words compared to her ever-expanding Bulgarian, but yet she remembers and recites Mother Goose rhymes as if she knew what they were all about.

She had very high fever Friday night, and even then, when we walked in to give her medicine, she greeted us with a smile and a barrage of the day's news--what we had done, who had gone where, who had worn what, what songs we listened to, etc. We had to beg her to stop talking, take her medicine, and go to sleep. I would have thought she was delirious, if I didn't know that this is simply how she is.

shoes off and on is a manic obsession.

She is pretty good at stringing four-five words together ("Tati pravi leglo batko Raya kachi": "Daddy make brother bed Raya climb" for "Daddy is making Sava's bed so I can climb on it), and since there is running commentary on everything, I just can't imagine what it will be like in a few months, when she is fluent and has access to all the vocabulary that she needs.

caught in the act. some serious time-outs after repeated illicit climbs on the table via the new bench.

She is starting to pick on words and phrases that she hears me say to Sava, and today, for instance, came over with a piece of paper on which she had scribbled something, showed it to me with a face of unspeakable enthusiasm, and exclaimed, "Look at dat!" as if she knew what those words meant. I am pretty sure she didn't, but Rado assures me she did. In any event, she knew that those are words you use when you show someone something, and she enacted the body language of excitement superbly.

I've been ready for a while to admit that parenting two such different personalities is a huge challenge. Where Sava needs thoughtful and measured responses to everything he says and does, and either ignoring him or downplaying his worries/interests/enthusiasm is prone to break his heart, Raya takes everything in stride and seems to brush off most of life's real or imagined obstacles. Sometimes I blame Sava, inwardly, that he cares too much, and sometimes I fear that Raya does not care enough.

I struggle with how to provide the quiet, peaceful atmosphere in which Sava's interests and emotions thrive, while stimulating Raya as much as she seems to need to be stimulated. These days before dinner and lunch I often allow them to go together into the pack-n-play which we keep downstairs for Raya's time-outs, and I choose not to watch as they wrestle and giggle and fall over each other, figuring that perhaps, as with most other things, they know best what they each need and what the other needs. So often, it seems, they do better when I step back and let them be, instead of telling Raya to be gentle, or Sava to not tickle her, or both not to crash with the cars too hard.

They each can learn so much from the other, and it is a delicate juggling act to allow them to do so without releasing all responsibility for their individual well-being.

*****

Random other photos: