Growing Pains

Letting go never came easy to me. I've always found comfort and purpose in my attachments to the people inside my intimate circle. There is a certain amount of control and familiar expectations entwined throughout the relationships that develop into our personal life story. I was entrenched in this sense of well-being one chilly fall day when I learned that sometimes, in order to move forward, you must stand back.

The year was 1999, and our home on Aspen Circle was nestled inside a townhouse complex in Blue Bell Pennsylvania. It was my husband's career change that brought us here from Uxbridge Massachusetts. This community was rich in diversity and offered glimpses into cultures we were not exposed to back home. Our two boys who were ages seven and five still carry fond memories of those days.

It was a desirable place to live, with pristine grounds that presented plenty of outdoor activities. There was an in-ground pool where friends would gather for the day, and mothers would yell constant reminders to the little ones, warning them to stay clear of the deep end. In all seasons except for winter, tennis balls rode on the crest of soft breezes, back and forth across the net, amidst the whirlwind of laughter. There was a basketball court and trails to walk through, and if you were lucky, you might spot one of the Canadian geese sitting on her eggs staring back at you, seeming to wonder just what exactly you were looking at.

On a day that held the door wide open to welcome winter, my youngest son begged me to take him outside for a lesson in bicycle riding. His older brother, equipped with an identical Elmo helmet, had mastered this art when he was his age. We dug out our jackets and gloves to ward off the chill and headed down to the barren basketball court just before dinner. The following description is not a faded memory playing a sentimental version of a typical Pennsylvania afternoon. This day looked special. Upon arrival, there was such a subdued orangey-red glow in the air that it seemed as though someone put a light softening lens on the sun to give it a dreamlike feel.

My son sat stoically on his bicycle as I held one hand on the front bar and the other on the back of his seat. I had seen this play out many times before with other children, and I was fully prepared for what was to take place. I knew in a matter of minutes he would not look where he was going, but rather, he would crane his neck for assurance that I was still there. Now an experienced mother, I would give him the confidence that I would stand by him in the literal and figurative sense. 

Facing the sun, he began to pedal. As he gained momentum, he began to shout, "Mom! Let go!" For a second, a long second, time stopped. I wasn't sure how to let go. My hands felt like part of the bicycle. My legs moved mechanically in step with the speed of my little peddler. Suddenly, I thought of all the times I would have to loosen my grip and watch to see if he balances or takes a fall. I lost sight of my job description; I was here to teach him to blaze his own path. There would be many times I would be tested in the name of independence. There would be a time I would have to drop him off at the movies, take him for his driver's permit, snap the picture before the prom, and kiss him as he leaves for college. I could now rest easy that he would always be there to give me gentle reminders when I held on too tight or too long.

The next thing I heard was a very loud, very commanding, "MOM! LET GO!" and I knew he meant it. It was at that moment, my hands slid off the bar, my feet stayed grounded in place, and one of my greatest teachers pedaled into the sunset.