End-of-Shower Chat with Ella... a quickie

I had the pleasure of showering with Ella tonight, and that use of the word "pleasure" is genuine and means pleasure.  She was fully cooperative and perfectly content -- a sincere delight to be around.

At the end of our shower, it was time to pick up our "froggie" bath mat and suction it to the shower wall.  As we did so, I recalled my ride home from the train tonight when I dodged several tiny frogs on the prairie path near the end of my ride (and noticed some had not been so fortunate, and not by my wheels).  I shared this with Ella.

"You know what, Ellie?" I started, peering directly into her eyes, my eyes wide with excitement.  She was listening.  "On my ride home from the train tonight, I saw a whole bunch of tiny, tiny frogs on the path."  I held up my hand and with my fingers demonstrated how tiny these creatures were.

"Did you also see poop?" she asked, surely recalling her ride with Cal in the Burley being towed by me on my bike a few months ago.  They pointed out every pile of poop we passed, and even some we didn't.

"Yes, I saw some poop," I told her.  I did.

"Were the frogs eating it?" she asked.

I told her that, no, the frogs weren't eating the poop and gave up.  At least one of us was impressed by the tiny frogs.

All She Wants for Christmas...

So Ella's been missing her two front teeth... her two front teeth... her two front teeth for a good month and a half now.  She did not come by this scenario naturally, either.  I can't believe I haven't written about it yet.  I think that could be because it just went so well... remarkably well for our girl who cries painful tears when her big brother merely brushes up against her when he walks by her.

I remember the blood vividly.  We had just arrived at the site of a softball tournament where we were planning to catch a couple of my dad's girls' softball games.  The Leatherkids had quickly found a playground on which they could step, climb and slide. They couldn't have been on there five minutes when, from the center of the playset, Dan heard Cal say, "You'll be okay."  Shortly after hearing that, he saw Ella emerge from the playset, crying, blood spewing from her mouth and soiling her prized "flamingo dress."  He grabbed and held her.

And then I saw her.  It really was a lot of blood.  I remember not being scared or panicky.  To be honest, that we had made it 6+ years with two kids with no broken limbs and very little bleeding, I felt like we were due; and that must have been our day to cash in.

Dan and I and a couple of strangers immediately went into stop-the-bleeding mode. Napkins, paper towels, ice and water -- we used it all on our little girl and her bloody mouth.  Ella cried, of course, more from fear of losing her teeth than the pain from falling and landing on her mouth.

Once the bleeding was done, Dan and I assessed the damage.  Her lip was swollen and cut; and at first glance, it didn't look like her teeth had been affected at all.  Her flamingo dress was bloodied but cleanable.  As this was our first experience with unexpected trauma, we weren't sure what we should do next -- take her to a doctor or just continue to ice and see how it plays out.  Dan looked again and noticed that one of her front teeth was pushed in a bit, so we decided to take her to immediate care, which happened to be conveniently located just down the road.  How in the world did my parents handle this stuff? These conveniences that we have today were not around when I was growing up!

So I took her to immediate care, where I was told (and to Ella's relief) there was nothing that they could do -- they don't pull teeth and they don't do stiches.  She really needed to go to the emergency room.  Whaaaaa?  She had a small cut in her lip and a slightly pushed-in tooth.  I challenged the nurse's suggestion; and, together, she and I concluded that I should just call our pediatrician and get her advice.  So I did, and we ended our conversation with a plan to get her in to see a dentist the next day.

We spent the rest of the day watching softball games, feeding Ella frozen treats (slushies, ice cream, fruit bars), playing whiffle ball with Cal and baking in the heat of summer sun. That she... strike that, we made it through the rest of the tournament with Ella in the broken, fragile state that she was is nothing sort of remarkable (and maybe a little dumb).  My dad's team ended up winning the tournament; and afterward, we went to dinner with my dad before heading home.  Ella, of course, had a strawberry shake for dinner.

We sent Ella to school the next day, swollen lip and wearing a now de-bloodied flamingo dress. Dan picked her up early and took her to the dentist where, by looking at x-rays, they learned that there had, in fact, been some shifting of her teeth (x-rays revealed shadows indicating this).  The dentist recommended pulling both teeth.

Say what?!?!?!!... to borrow a line from "Fancy Nancy and the Mermaid Ballet."

So Ella had been to the dentist before... for a simple check-up and cleaning.  It didn't go well -- no x-rays were taken; and I don't even remember that the hygienist was actually able to put fluoride on her teeth, and not for lack of effort.  Ella would just not let it happen.  That she went from that state of mind to cooperating in getting her two front teeth... her two front teeth... her two front teeth pulled is nothing short of remarkable. I wasn't there to witness it, but I really credit both the dentist and Dan for that.  My guess is that they simply said the right words, gave the right explanation and provided the right amount of comfort that Ella knew everything would be okay.

On my way home from work that day, I stopped to get Ella a shake.  When I arrived home, Dan and Ella were in a reclined position on the couch watching the movie, "Frozen."  If I could have captured the whole conversation that I had with her, I would have.  She was so matter-of-fact about her experience at the dentist, describing all of the steps without emotion.  She was so positive and just so darn cute, talking with a new, heavy lisp through the gaping hole left my her now missing two front teeth... her two front teeth... her two front teeth.

And I'll never forget this thing that she said, "I'm still Ella and I'm still beautiful."  She is.

Since the dentist had to keep her teeth, she didn't have any teeth to leave for the tooth fairy, something with which our tooth fairy has become very familiar due to Cal's tendency to swallow his when he loses them.  The night of the tooth extraction, I was with Cal at his swimming lesson and received a text with this picture attached:

Toothless Ella and her note to the tooth fairy

She left that note next to her pillow for the tooth fairy -- she was a little afraid of the tooth fairy getting too close to her if it were left under her pillow, so this was a compromise.  Of course, this was fine with the tooth fairy, making it so much easier to pay a visit without waking the kid.  And, what do you know, the tooth fairy did visit her and left her 8 quarters.

Ella's look for a few years

We learned from a follow-up visit to the dentist that it might actually end up taking longer for Ella's top two front permanent teeth to come in than it would have had she not had to have her baby teeth pulled.  So we're looking at cute lisp and a few years of school pictures with Ella missing her two front teeth... her two front teeth... her two front teeth.  Oooohhhh... these next few Christmases are going to be fun! All she wants for Christmas is her two front teeth... her two front teeth... her two front teeth... so Ella can wish you Merry Christhmas!"

Yes, she is still Ella and she is still beautiful.

Mommy Kicked Monday's Ass

I kicked ass yesterday.  I really did.

I ran three miles, starting at 5:45am. Early in my run, I overcame the sharp plantar fasciitis pain in my foot, stiff morning legs and a fond memory of how comfortable my bed felt when my alarm first went off.  I started running even before the sun revealed itself in its entirety in the morning sky.  I set out to run three miles, and I did, through the labored breathing, heavy legs and the slowness that has become enitrely too familiar to me with my aging body.  On any other day, I'd be disappointed in myself for not being fast enough. But yesterday... yesterday, I say I kicked ass.

I put in a good 8 hours of work actually at work and another 3 later at home.  At work, I fielded questions, made decisions, uncovered unknown business rules and supported my co-workers, leaving stuff I knew I could do independently for later in the comforts of my own home. I worked until I could mentally work no more, leaving something I wanted to get done unfinished but with a big dent in it. By the end of the day, my sticky notes of things to do and high-priority things to do were barely addressed.  On any other day, I'd know I worked hard but would be disappointed in my seeming lack of progress or productivity. But yesterday... yesterday, I say I kicked ass.

My bike on the prairie path

In between those sets of working hours, I took my usual train out from the City but de-trained a stop earlier so I could pick my bike up from its long overdue service not even a block from the train station.  I was excited about it. Not only did I feel good about taking care of my bike, but I was looking forward to riding it -- clean and tuned up -- the 8-mile route home that I had mapped out for last week's commute.  And I was proud of myself for doing it.  I had already run 3 miles and worked a full day; instead of getting behind the wheel of a car, I was on my bike, pedalling up and down hills, with and against the wind and in and out of subdivisions until I hit the familiar prairie path near my home. Yes, yesterday... yesterday I say I kicked ass for riding my bike home from the train.

Once home, I had some good time with the Leatherkids.  I was positive and patient.  They were in good spirits.  We laughed and genuinely enjoyed each other's company.  Instead of pulling his folder out of his backpack and looking myself, asked Cal to show me his schoolwork, my new approach to making sure that he knows I'm interested in his schoolwork.  I "ate" food -- some kind of french fry concoction and rainbow fruit -- that Ella fixed for me in her kitchen while I fixed dinner for the family in mine.  We were finished eating and had the kitchen cleaned up by 7:30 when I declared it was time for showers and teeth brushing and books and bedtime, all of which needed to be done by 7:55pm so I could make it to Costco for some animal crackers, Go-gurts and a couple of other much-needed replenishments of Leatherfamily staples.  You know what?  I got full cooperation and wrapped all of it up by 8:03pm, and for that... for that, I say I kicked ass.

With a mental list that contained animal crackers, Go-gurt and Zone bars, I made it to Costco just before 8:15pm.  Afraid of what cart might encourage, I headed cartless right to the Zone bars... ooohh, and right next to them I saw those kid Clif bars that Cal eats for snacks... and then I headed to the animal crackers... and then I saw Go-Go Squeezes... and then Go-Gurts... and grapes... and you can imagine what I looked like balancing all of this stuff -- stuff we needed -- in Costco.  An employee asked if I needed a cart, to which I replied, "I'd love a cart!"  And this enabled me to grab that enormous package of toilet paper that caught my eye and reminded me we needed some... ooohhh, and we (really, I) needed (wanted?) more wine, so I grabbed three bottles.  I did all of this by 8:25pm, paid, showed the guy at the door my receipt and made my way to my car, As I did so, I was passed by a lady running toward the store and declaring she had "three minutes" before they closed.  Yes... I kicked ass at Costco.  It wasn't a 3-minute ass-kicking, but it was an ass-kicking nonetheless.

Not done yet, I had time to get to Trader Joe's before they closed at 9pm.  We needed milk and bread; and I always find something else to get at Trader Joe's.  I could have headed to Jewel a few blocks down the road from Costco, but I feel better shopping at Trader Joe's.  Again, I didn't grab a cart and grabbed a basket instead.  And I filled that baby up with two each of milk and bread... and some lettuce and corn on the cob and hand soap and cheese and some frozen treats for the kids.  Once again, I was asked if I needed a cart; and this time, I responded that I didn't.  The basket filled with groceries was bowing at the handle a bit but really wasn't that heavy.  By 8:55pm, I was paying for it all and by 8:57pm the cashier was carrying my milk out to my car as I carried the rest of the groceries -- I told her I didn't need help, afterall, I knew I was kicking ass huge that day -- but she insisted.  Despite the help, and perhaps because of my acceptance of it, I say I kicked ass at Trader Joe's.

And I was home by a minute or two after 9pm.  I took the perfect route home -- no other route could have been as quick.  I picked the perfect radio station in that the catchy song "Cheerleader" (OMI) was aired and made me smile -- it always does. I sang along with it. In selecting and executing my perfect route home and singing a happy tune, I say I kicked ass.

So that was my Monday -- relatively typical, perhaps a little more activity than usual, but, really, not much more.  It had its ups and downs, thrills and disappointments.  It had its share of stresses, too.  But my perspective on it made all the difference in the world. I really didn't know how good it really was as it was happening and only realized the ass-kicking I was giving my day late in my bike ride home from the train station.  I felt good about myself and all that I had accomplished even at that point; and this recognition triggered my having an extremely positive perspective as I finished out the rest of my day.

There was nothing out of the ordinary about the day's activities.  What was out of the ordinary was how I perceived it.  In the moment, it's easy to criticize myself for my shortcomings, be it physical, mental, or parental.  But looking back at the full set of what I might do in a day... I do kick ass.  And on Monday, I gave myself some credit for that.

Some Math Using Professional Athletes

It's not uncommon for us to present some addition/subtraction problems to Cal in the form of professional athletes and the numbers they wear (or wore) on their jersies. Tonight's challenge was typical, though it did tap into some historical (i.e. not active) players, something we've certainly talked about but, other than Michael Jordan being the greatest basketball player EVER, not that we spend much time on.  Here's how it went:

Dan: "What was Michael Jordan's number?"

Cal: "23."

Dan: "What was Scottie Pippen's number?"

Cal: "I don't remember."

Dan: "Okay, what's Michael Jordan plus Josh Donaldson minus 10?"

Cal: "You mean minus <Patrick> Sharp?"

Dan: "Yes."

Cal: "33."

Love it.  Love him.

Cal's Jokes

I recently shared on Facebook one of Cal's jokes, told out of the blue sometime last week. It went like this, where Dan was his willing assistant:

Cal: "What comes before TUBA?"

Dan: "I don't know -- what comes before tuba?"

Cal:  "ONEba!"

And we all laughed histerically.  So clever, that kid.

Ellen Degeneres dressed as Thor

Just before I headed downstairs this morning, I caught a preview for an upcoming episode of "Ellen" on the TV in our bedroom.  At the end of the preview, Ellen Degeneres was dressed as Thor and told a joke that I tried to keep fresh in my head while I headed downstairs so I could share it with Cal.

"Cal, I have a joke for you," I started.  Cal stopped what he was doing and listened intently.

Me: "Where does Thor go grocery shopping?"

Cal, after a brief pause: "Sports Authority?"

Me, without hesitation: "No, a grocery THOR!!!"

While I laughed histerically, he informed me it wasn't that funny.  I said it was.  He then pointed out that he had said "Sports AuTHORity," emphasis on "THOR."  He was right -- his was funnier, certainly more clever, if I had started the joke differently, which really may have been the correct wording, I'm not sure.  If only I'd catch the Ellen show later today...

So we revised it to go like this:

Question: Where does Thor go shopping?

Answer: Sports AuTHORity!!!

So funny.

Cal then pulled out another one, and we're not sure if this is one of his own or if he heard it somewhere.  He asked me to share it on my blog.

Cal:  "Who's the Incredible Hulk's favorite astronaut?"

Dan:  "I don't know -- who's the Hulk's favorite astronaut?"

Cal: "Neil ARMSTRONG!!!"

We all laughed and announced that we thought Cal could give Uncle Perry a run for his money as a joke teller.  And these are all certainly blog-worthy.

It Really Was a Good Weekend

When I first logged in to do some work last night, I noticed a million (seemed like it, anyway -- certainly an overwhelming number) windows open on my laptop, some indicating unfinished work and others indicating the rushed end to my workday on Friday. One of the windows was a Lync message to a friend, telling him some of my plans for the weekend.  We didn't have any definitive plans, so I told him "probably" these three things, in no particular order:

• Go to the beach
• Ride my bike twice, longer than the 8-mile route I had been doing
• Get back to teaching Cal to ride his bike

I smiled when I read it last night but somehow forgot about it come morning.  As I walked from my car to the train, I was feeling hints of disappointment that I hadn't done the big thing I wanted to do yesterday, which was essentially clean and de-clutter our picked-up but pig-sty of a house.  Whoop di doo.

Then I remembered the message...

We did go to the beach... well, Cal, Ella and I did.  I'm noticing a pattern -- we initially have every intention of going as a family.  It'll be fun.  Cal declares he doesn't want to go. Dan says he'll stay home with Cal so the girls can still go.  Cal decides at the 11th hour that he really does want to go.  Dan already has it in his head that he isn't going to go and has planned something else, typically productive, for the day.  And off the three of us are to the beach, sans Daddy.

At the beach

Though not stress-free by any means, being solo with the kids at the beach is surprisingly not too bad, certainly not unbearable and, frankly, actually enjoyable.  The worst part is coordinating trips to the bathroom, which are all too frequent given Ella's penchant for all types of bathrooms (the porta-potty type being her favorite).  I first try to force Cal to go with us, fail, and then compromise with a "stay right here... RIGHT HERE" with some random consequence that has no meat to it.  Other than that, it's really just an exercise in keeping both kids within my line of sight and equally balancing the attention I give to each kid, watching her do a cannonball into the water on one side of the pool and him zip down the waterslide on the other.  And in between I might try a few of the strokes and kicks I've been watching Cal learn at swimming for the past two years myself.

Hidden cemetary

I did ride my bike, twice, 13+ miles on Saturday (solo) and 14+ on Sunday (pulling Ella behind me in the Burley).  I discovered a new trail a mile and a half from our house that moved along a greenway behind one subdivision to the next with familiar prairie grass and farm fields in between.  I discovered a hidden cemetary filled with wild flowers and more prairie grass, and peeking out of it in the middle a pencil-like headstone, any name on which I could not see from behind the wrought iron fence surrounding it.  I rode along train tracks and over a bridge twice.  I hopped rough curbs, taking me back to my days of daily riding with traffic and around and sometimes over small obstacles.  I rode from one end to the other, miles apart.  I felt like a kid... or the young adult I once was.

Balancing and pedaling

And on Saturday, we did get Cal back out to the grassy incline at a nearby nature preserve, the same one that he and I had tackled just a week before.  This time the whole family went to witness, teach and ecourage.  It was great.  Thrice, Cal coasted down the hill like a pro just as he had left off, and he quickly transitioned from coasting with his feet dangling, to coasting with his feet on the pedals to pedalling down it.  I cheered from the top, Dan videoed and cheered from the middle, and Ella, standing with Dan, ran after him once he got to the bottom.  It was great.  A true family affair.

As quickly as Cal had started pedalling down the hill, Dan had him on a shorter hill and then a flat surface.  He only needed to learn how to start from a stop without a hill to do the work for him.  With only a couple of demonstrations by big Dan on little bike and then feeling it out for himself, Cal caught on to this quickly.  Once again, I was reminded of the things that our adult selves do so naturally, so effortlessly -- walk, swing, pedal -- that really aren't necessarily natural, that had to be learned.  It took a bit of time, a little instruction, a lot of encouragement and perhaps a kid, a dad and a mom realizing how close we were that we just couldn't quit, but Cal eventually figured out how to start riding his bike from a stop.  And off we went to get that Lego set I had promised him on August 1st if he learned to ride his bike by the end of August.  It was August 8th.  I did not expect this to happen so quickly -- nothing ever does.

If there was any doubt that he'd retain his newfound skill overnight or that he'd get tentative on the sidewalks in our neighborhood, that was thwarted by Cal's frequent and even more skilled bike riding throughout the day on Sunday.

So my house may not be clean or free of clutter that's been bugging me for months now; but I don't care.  I had a good weekend despite it.  This makes me happy.

Cal's Jays

While eating our cereal this morning (Cal eating "Mommy's cereal" (Honey Bunches of Oats), me eating a mix of Life and Frosted Flakes (which is soon becoming the new Mommy's Cereal)), the highlights from last night's White Sox-Royals game came on.  We were both distracted by it and watched the highlights to the end.  Cal already knew the result of the game and was only watching it because... well... because it's baseball, and he watches ANYTHING baseball these days.  I didn't know the result of the game and let out a disappointing "AWWWWW" when I eventually learned that the Sox had lost, 3-2.

The White Sox are the Leatherman family's favorite team.  I told Cal this a few years ago and have reiterated it many times since then.  Going into this season, if you asked him who his favorite team was, he'd tell you confidently, "the White Sox."  Good boy.

He was all about the White Sox until the All Star game came around.  I don't know if it's that the only White Sox player to make the team was Chris Sale (who, incidentally, didn't get in the game to throw a single pitch) and realized life might be better putting his fandom behind another team or if it's that he was so impressed by another player who was in the Home Run Derby that he couldn't help but root for any team that player is on; but all of a sudden, Cal is all about the Blue Jays.  Really?  The Blue Jays?  I didn't know anyone outside of Toronto called himself a Blue Jays fan.

When we play baseball in the backyard or at nearby fields, Josh Donaldson is always at bat or playing the field now.  Once, he even pitched.  Josh this, Josh that.  I now find myself calling Cal, "Josh D" when we play baseball.  He loves it.  Who wouldn't -- Josh D is an excellent ballplayer.

But the Blue Jays?  I tease him about his liking the Blue Jays (while deep inside parts I might not ever reveal to him I find myself proud of him for being different, for having some reason to like a team other than because someone told him to).

So the White Sox have always been my favorite team; but I've never hidden the fact that I love the Yankees.  Right or wrong, I do.  I love their history.  I love their tradition.  I love Derek Jeter.  I recently told Cal this.

So after my "AWWWWW" upon learning that the White Sox had dropped their game to the Royals yesterday, I turned to Cal and asked him with a snotty tone, "So, did YOUR Blue Jays win?"

He answered quickly, "Yes."  I think he even told me the score.  And without skipping a beat he followed that, a big smile on his face, with, "Did YOUR Yankees win?"

I laughed.  He got me.  And, no, I don't know if they won.  I should probably find that out.

[Added later: Dan informed me that the Yankees did, in fact, lose last night... to the Blue Jays!  Oh, my.  How perfect was that, only in a blog kind of way.]

Proper Use of "Shut Up", by Ella

Other than the traditional swear words, there are two phrases that are taboo in the Leatherman household: "stupid" and "shut up."  For awhile when Cal was three, maybe four years old, the term, "whatever" was in that list.  It was an impromptu, unplanned add given his frequent use of the term to dismiss something I had said.

"Cal, please put your shoes away," I might've said.

"WHATEVER!" he'd respond and not put his shoes away.

Initially, the term could never be used, even when used appropriately, as in, "whatever you want to do is fine."  Eventually, it evolved to not being used in the dismissive context. I distinctly remember having endless conversations with Cal about it.

"I can say, 'Whatever... you want to do," he'd say.

"Yes, that's right, Cal," I'd respond.

"I can say, "Whatever... the color is."

"Yes, Cal."

"I can say, "Whatever... I want to eat."

"Yes, Cal, you can."

On and on it would go.  He understood.

Cal and I found ourselve engaged (though "engaged" might be too strong a word; "sucked in" might be more appropriate) in a similar conversation with Ella on our way to the beach on Sunday.  The radio was playing and the song, "Shut Up and Dance with Me," made its way to the airwaves.  Instead of turning it off given its constant use of one of our taboo phrases (thanks a lot, music industry), I decided to let it play and sang along.

Ella knows not to say it and asked about it.  So I explained why I thought it was okay, saying that he's not being mean and telling someone to just "shut up, stop talking."  "He's saying, 'Oh, stop talking and come and have fun and dance with me!'" I said.

Ella understood and brought our chat to her typical levels of insessant talking.  "Yeah, he can say, 'Shut up and dance with me.'"

And then...

"I can say this, Mommy... I can say, "'SHUT UP... that is SO COOL.'"

"Yes, that's right, Ellie," I responded.

"I can say, "'SHUT UP... this is SO AWESOME.'"

"Yep, you've got it, Baby Girl."

"I can say... I can say... 'Oh my gosh, SHUT UP... that is SO BEAUTIFUL.'"

"That's right, you can say that.  Just don't tell someone to "shut up" because you want them to stop talking.  That's mean," I tried to end it.

But she carried on with the same phrases, on and on, excited that she understood, perhaps more excited that she could say, "shut up."  This went on for another 5 minutes, until we reached the beach.

I know I was walking a thin line by opening up the gates on the use of the phrase, "shut up."  But why not?  She gets it, just like Cal understood acceptable usage of "whatever" back in the day.

Two hours later, we were, again, in the car.  Wouldn't you know it, that same song once again made its way to the airwaves.  Cal heard it right away and said, "Oh, no, don't let Ella talk about this AGAIN!"

We all laughed and somehow managed to NOT talk about it.  "Whatever" the explanation for that was, Cal and I were both happy that she decided to "shut up" about it.

Accidental End to Training Wheels

Sometime mid-afternoon this past Saturday, I promised Cal that I'd take him to "the field" to play some baseball.  He had asked me earlier in the day to do this with him only to receive some disappointing news that we couldn't, that we'd be heading to the beach instead. Not long after telling Cal "no" to baseball, I found Ella asleep alongside Dan on our bed, a clear sign that there'd be no trip to the beach that day.  A run and some baseball with my kid would be a good replacement.  

Cal waited patiently for me while I got my three miles in.  Once home, I found myself once again negotiating with my kid -- I was thinking we'd go to the field near the park in our neighborhood, while Cal was thinking we'd go a little further to the one at his school. I conceded but insisted we ride our bikes there.  Cal agreed.

There was one little problem with this plan -- one of training wheels on Cal's bike had fallen off weeks ago, and one remained.  He's never ridden without them, so he needed both.  Fortunately, we still had the one that had fallen off; unfortunately, despite my best efforts, I could not get it attached securely to his bike.  So I removed the other one and declared that we'd drive there instead.  Bothered by this driving-not-even-a-mile scenario and not wanting him to start first grade unable to ride a bike, I quickly jumped on the opportunity to make a deal with him.

"Cal, you're going to learn how to ride your bike without training wheels," I told him.  "By the end of August."  I don't recall if I volunteered the incentive or if he asked and I agreed, but we made a deal -- if he learns to ride his bike without training wheels by the end of August, I'll buy him a Lego set.

We then climbed into the car and headed to the field to play some baseball.  And just by the way, if it weren't for the learning-to-ride-a-bike thing, I'd be writing about how happy I was to finally play some catch -- legitimate catch -- with Cal.  I was put on earth to be that mom, the one who plays catch with her son.  Anyway...

This morning, Cal was, of course, up, dressed and catching up on baseball news on MLB Network before anyone else was awake in the house.  I think it was either the sound of the door to the garage slamming shut or Ella standing on my side of the bed asking about the location of her beloved "flamingo dress" -- or both -- that got me out of bed.  I headed downstairs, didn't see Cal and just figured he was playing basketball or soft-tossing a baseball to himself in the front yard.  Instead of confirming this like I should have -- the kid is very responsible and trustworthy outside -- I made myself some coffee.

Not long after I had made my way downstairs, Dan did, too.  He asked where Cal was.  I, of course, told him he was out in front but decided it'd be a good idea to confirm this.  So I did.

As soon as I opened the door, Cal, sporting his bike helmet, was scrambling up the two stairs in our garage toward me.

"What are you doing?" I asked him.

He told me that he was trying to learn how to ride his bike.  This melted my heart.  He was listening to me on Saturday.  He was trying already by Sunday.  All on his own.

I told him I'd come out and help him but needed to get dressed first.  In the meantime, Dan, already dressed, made his way outside.

So, while both of us learned how to ride a training-wheel-less bike, neither of us has actually taught a kid to do so, much less a perfectionist kid who expects to be able to do things effortlessly and is not afraid to unleash his frustration on anyone or anything in his sight.  I pictured a lot of pain and suffering for at least three of the Leathermans in August.

When I emerged, now dressed, Dan was pulling a chair out of the garage, apparently setting up to watch Cal from the end of the driveway.  I soon learned that this was at Cal's insistence -- he didn't need help.  Cal was struggling on his bike on this sidewalk.  I tried to jump in and help -- grab the back of the seat?  grab the handlebars?  grab both? -- and failed miserably.  Dan gave it another shot, and I knew a visit to Google was imminent... and necessary.

So I Googled "teach a child to ride a bike" and found a YouTube video that made perfect sense -- get off the pavement, get to a grassy hill and start with learning balance by coasting down that hill.  With this approach, a kid could learn how to ride a bike in as little as two hours and up to several days.  This was how we'd approach it.

It took a little time to get the other Leathermans to buy into this approach, but they did; and while Dan took Ella to her swimming lesson this morning, I took Cal to a nearby popular park that I new had a lot of grassy areas with inclines.  I knew this is where it would all come together.  I was pumped.  My kid would be the learn-in-two-hours kid -- that's how much sense this method made to me.

Turns out, he didn't learn in two hours; but he did make some huge strides in two hours. Sure, five times he serously wanted to quit, and once we were actually packed up and in the car, pulling out of our parking spot.  Twice he threw his helmet and once he kicked his non-performing bike.  And throughout, I encouraged him with phrases like, "you can do this, Cal" and "Mommy and Daddy learned how to ride" and "it's just like when you learned to walk -- it wasn't easy, but you learned!"  I warned him with phrases like, "you're going to fall, and that's okay" and "you have to be moving forward in order to balance -- the faster you go, the easier it'll be."  I incented him with, "if you keep trying to balance your way down the hill, I'll buy you a Lego set today" and "I'll still buy you one once you learn to ride."  And I constantly reminded him of how proud I was of him.  That we were even out there on those grassy inclines was entirely due to his initiative to get started on learning how to ride his bike on his own first thing that morning.  I just planted the seed is all.

The first grassy incline wasn't steep enough, so we found another one that turned out to be perfect... other than that it fed into the first "hole" of the frisbee golf course, which surprisingly had a lot of action this morning.  His first time down, Cal successfully balanced his way to the base of the hill, feet off the ground the whole way.  This was our first glimpse at this method paying off, and I cheered the heck out of him for having done it and ran down to give him a high ten and a huge hug.  I can't remember the last time I was that excited about something.

He started getting ahead of himself, wanting to head to the sidewalk to now try riding and pedalling; but I insisted he do at least balance his way down the hill without falling three times in a row.  That he could repeat it was necessary.  Why three?  It was more than a fluke but not too much to discourage him from even trying a second time.  Plus, I like the number 3.  So he tried again and fell... then again and didn't fall.  We went through a few cycles of this, counting our successes; and eventually he did have three in a row.

"Okay, if you want to go down the hill now and pedal along the way, you can," I told him.

Next thing I knew, we weren't targeting three in a row, we were targeting 30.  Yes, our new goal was 30 balances in a row down the hill (and, incidentally, 30 pushes of the bike back up the hill at the hands of Mommy).  Not sure where this came from but not believing he was yet ready to pedel, I went along with this, tallying his successes along with Cal.  Eight... eleven...

At one point, while we trudged back up the hill, Cal said he could see a leopard in the tire and footprints we were leaving in the grass with all of this.  Such focus.  "The footprints are the spots and the tire marks are the legs," he told me.  I didn't see it.  I mean, I saw it but equated it as much with a leopard as I did batting practice before a baseball game.

... twelve... fourteen...

"I'm thirsty, Mommy," Cal said. "Let's go over there <to the building at the park> to get some water and fill my water bottle.  So we took a break.

... fifteen... eighteen...

"Let's just do twenty, Mommy," Cal concluded at eighteen.  That was fine with me -- afterall, I was originally shooting for three... or maybe a few more than three if I could get it out of him.  Plus, we were more than a couple of hours into it with a trip to Toys 'R Us for a Lego set and to the beach, as promised to Ella, on our horizons.

So we called it a day with a plan to try it again either later that day or sometime this week.  I know we'll get back to it, and I know he'll learn to ride before the end of August. There's a Lego set on the line, an approach to learning that makes sense and a kid who's clearly game for both.