Biking with kids

Biking with kids
I bike with my kids every day. The little guy, he’s two and some change, rides on the front in a green seat. The big guy, he’s 5 and some extra, is pulled from behind in a trailer for two. I would let the two ride together but we will be travelling for only about four hundred meters and I hear something in between a whimper and a gasp for air. Thank goodness my five-year old is way bonier than my 2 year old or the latter would be a quesadilla with a side of black beans by now. I pull over and find my two year old Finnie encapsulated by his bike helmet with pistachio shells and woodchips splattered down his pants and hooded sweater. I ask him, “Do you want to ride with me in the green seat”? Today he articulated immediately, “wanna green seat”. Occasionally he wants to feel what it is like to ride in the big brother trailer and he takes the abuse all the way home. Silent fingernail pinches revealed hours later in the bathtub. Other days he assumes the rigor mortis position, insisting to walk and not ride in the green seat or in the pimpin trailer. If I am running late for Finn, then I am really running late for Zennen. I have to make it to Finn by 5:15 because it takes at least ten minutes of transitioning him from Kika’ s house, his favorite powder pink push car, and teacup cupcake with twig candles, to the bicycle. I try to explain, “Hi Finnie, howz it going? We really need to push off to go get big brother Zennen across town in less than 20 minutes by bike and trailer along with the two bags of groceries I could not resist from buying on the way over here”…He cuts me off, “Happy ewe w ewe w..Happy eww eww you you”..O.K. Finnie, just one song. Happy birthday to you…Finnie…Kika…Reid…Noah…Baby Keira…Natasha…Mo…Mommy…O.K. Finnie now we REALLY gotta GO! I mention the bicycle. Wanna go ride the BIKE?! “NO!” He dashes away to the back of the yard and into a munchkin house with his cupcakes….”Hey there, a Finnie, wanna go look for kitty cats?”…quiet contemplation. “Let’s go look for the orange cat in the bicycle.” That’s it. He darts for the gate, “bye Kika!” Now we have 16 minutes to get to Zennen before I am tortured with whips and chains and $5 per late minute by the founders of the flower power kids run this place preschool. 22 minutes later, after huffing across town, dodging road ragers, protecting my bike’s gear shifters from my toddler’s tricksy fingertips, pointing out every squirrel, dog, stop sign, and kitty cat while simultaneously singing Jingle Bells, we stroll merrily onto the sidewalk in front of “New School”. I lift Finnie off his seat and he takes off with bike helmet covering his eyes, down the sidewalk, straight for the corner and ongoing traffic. In one Jackie Joyner Kersee leap and a couple of bounding striders I grasp my fleeing child by his tie-dye hood. Thanks to Jehovah, Allah and a bag of frozen baby peas my achilles tendon responds beautifully to my child’s stamina test. I haul the 28 pound sack of potatoes along with my five year old Dell Precision laptop on my back into the school yard to pick up my preschooler. Of course he is nowhere to be found. I look up at the Walmart clock, tick tick ticking away in front of the school house. I rub my eyes a couple of times to make sure I see a couple of ticks of the big hand before the 12. My child’s clandestine maneuvers improve on each pickup so I have to breathe in and release three “Ohms” to conjure up the additional patience needed to corral this wild stallion. I finally spot him concealed under the jungle gym in marine cammos, yogurt stains, and flowing strands of unkept goldilocks. He sees me and Finn and takes off. I cannot follow him through the sea of snotty noses and bouncy balls. I set Finnie down for a split second. BeeYanG! He’s gone. Gone for good. Probably. What do you do? One has purposely fallen into an abyss, cackling like Charles Manson without any sense of sympathy for a mommy feeling chilled by her pedaling sweat. The other, much more vulnerable and chimpanzee-like has stolen off in the direction of the twilight zone, i.e. through the schoolhouse and to the opposite school yard that has a vast number of vertical death defying challenges and American Black checkered bunnies. I reason that the five year old can survive for at least another two hours on rice cake crumbs and anise weed while I shoot off and try to find my two year old in the unsupervised yard. At first all I see is the wreckage from his five minute shopping spree through his playing field. Chinese made and Target distributed plastic yellow shovel, lawn mower, and arugula sprawled across the woodchipped yard. Where IS HE?? Under here, under there, Ah hah! There is that neon yellow bike helmet with red devil stunt man. Right before I reach out and grasp him with my kamikaze grip I remember the “Positive Parenting” guilt trip novel written by adults who cannot possibly have raised more than one child at a time. I stop and haphazardly offer Finnie ten more seconds to play before I have to lift him off to outer space in a rocketship designed for Fun, Fun and more Fun! I have a terrible time keeping the seconds seconds and not milliseconds. Nevertheless! I am pleased because he is now above my head along with my computer and we are on our way. But WAIT! What about Zennen’s lunch bag, jacket, artwork and woodshop creation? These cannot possibly be left. Oh NO! And, back we go. Two steps forward, one and two third steps back. I keep my football Finn tight under my armpit while I scramble up the cubby bits. Now through the hall, a scribble on the sign out sheet and there is my Buddha son grazing on the anise, chard, and sour grass in the front of the school. Today I am super smart because instead of setting the flying carpet boy down and watching him steal off towards his favorite jogging ramp I manage to secure him snuggly with three enforcement straps into the bike trailer. One kid down! I then make slow eye contact with the older, wiser, more mischievous counterpart. I carefully show no sudden movement but the gazelle senses danger and sprints back behind the Denali bush, the wild anise they keep over grown to attract swallowtail caterpillars. I break through some reeds and find him just as he propels a bushel of sour grass into my face. Since I have just about exhausted any residual blood glucose and my cerebellum is having a hard time deducing my next counterbalancing step I bribe him with the groceries in the back compartment of my bike trailer. “Look Zennen. I DO have something you might want in the trailer.” …”What do you have!?” He jets towards the trailer. “First you HAVE TO GET IN, my sweetie.” I try to keep my voice from cracking, twisted knuckles, and green teeth from showing. “Yummy snack, but you have to GET STRAPPED IN FIRST.” Ah! Bliss! He’s a strapped! He is kind of sitting on Finn but I check and feel a pulse so I take off. Zennen is quick and reminds me. “Hey! What about that snack!” I again, remember that damn positive parenting book and whip around and offer him a blood orange from my lunch pail. My knuckly hand clutches back on the handle bars and we set off for the downhill ride back to the west, wilder side of Berzerkeley. All I hear is a crunch crunch and some struggling whimpers. I suck up the cold air and wish I would finally remember to bring myself a jacket too for once. In another 20 we make it to our walk: the idling humming motorists, lovely scented Thai kitchen next door, a tea kettle, an abundance of train tracks, Godzilla paraphernalia, two smelly boys and a smelly husband to call home.