The little one is just learning the joys of self-propulsion with the aid of training wheels and I watch her taking those incremental but inevitable steps towards borrowing the car and not needing me anymore.
The big one is coming down the hill, raising her hands on and off the handlebars, doing the “Look at me, I can ride no hands” trick. She puts her hands back on the bike and does a few tight turns, showing off as usual.
I think it before it happens. I should tell her to take it easy, but it’s too late.
She doesn’t handle pain well. She does not like to see her own blood leaking from her skin. She’s inconsolable and goes into hysterics at the suggestion of washing the cuts with water. We speak not of Betadine.
Coming off the bike is a matter of when, not if. It’s a rite of passage for most kids. Usually there’s no harm done and they’ve got a bit of a story to tell. But as a parent, it’s tough.
I try to comfort her, but I get frustrated at her refusal to let me do anything. And really, it’s a bit of graze on the elbows and knees and she’s been crying for half an hour. I think “harden up”, but I don’t say it.
This is not our first time off the bike. Once I got the dreaded call from a neighbour.
“Ruby’s had a bit of a fall. They’re just putting her in the ambulance now. Can you meet them at the hospital?”
It was her fifth birthday. Brand new bike, down 10 stairs off our front deck.
I think she was braver back then. The hospital staff were excellent and we left with three stitches and a bit of a story to tell. No harm done.
So she has a scar on her forehead, just like Harry Potter. And although hers is not the shape of a lightning bolt, it still bonds them in some special way.
We read the latest instalments of Harry’s adventures at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and the pain vanishes, as if by magic.
She wouldn’t get back on the bike for a couple of days, but she’s tearing down that hill again now.
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