Connery has recently mastered his tricycle, and, more importantly, is quite keen to ride it. All day long, if possible. Up until he started at Montessori, he wasn't showing a lot of interest in wheeled vehicles, except for an Elmo scooter-type-thing that didn't have any pedals and instead ran on foot power like a Flintstone car. It was fine when he fit on it, but by the time he was two, he was scraping the tops of his feet more often than actually moving.
Nana and Grandpa bought him the current beloved tricycle quite some time ago. When he first got it, my dad put blocks on the pedals because his legs wouldn't reach all the way down there. When he would try to pedal it, he would get frustrated and want to put it away. It continued that way right up until he saw the trikes at Montessori--and the Big Kids riding on them. All of a sudden, he was a fearless speed demon, a trait he's now brought home.
We all went for a walk the other night with Connery on the tricycle. I say walk, but it was really more like a joyride for him and a run for us. I saw only his ever-shrinking back and his crazy pedaling legs for the entire expedition. All of a sudden, watching him ride away from us--most gleefully, I should add--I had a little preview of what the next 14 years are going to be like. Now it's a little red trike, but all too soon it's going to be a dirt bike and then, someday--ulp--a car.
How do parents ever muster the strength to let their kids out of their sight, much less into a car with a bunch of teenagers? How did my parents do it? I remember at the time that I got my license (having just turned 15, I might add) feeling infinitely mature and worthy of the heinous responsibility that had just been bestowed on me. It turned out that I hated to drive, so I guess that cut down on some worries, but I still was a passenger plenty.
When I was a senior, my parents let my best friend and me drive to Spokane, which is about seven hours and two mountain passes from my hometown. We were going to see Les Miserables, and we stayed with friends of my parents. At the time, I saw absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in this trip. We were two good kids who had good grades and good brains going to see a show unavailable in our smaller town. I now look at this and think, "My God. How did my parents--and Dan's for that matter--ever have the guts to see us off in Dan's little Honda as we drove 300-plus miles through three states? And did they spend the entire time rocking back and forth on the floor, moaning with worry? Because that's what I'd do."
The thing was that in Montana, teens driving long distances was just a matter of necessity. If you were in activities, you had to drive to get to state conventions and district meetings and to see the friends you made from all corners of the state. Going to high school in Montana always felt like being in a small, friendly neighborhood--it was just that your neighborhood took nine hours and 700 miles to cross.
I don't know if it will be that way when Connery goes to high school. Maybe the kids will just text each other until their thumbs bleed and the only danger will be rampant carpal tunnel syndrome. But I doubt it. Instead, I imagine that I'd better just get used to seeing Connery from that angle--pedaling madly and getting smaller and smaller in the distance.