The latest dirt bike is powerful, faster than a speeding bullet. My little 9-year-old Superman flew by me in practice, and I said it was scary, because it was. But my husband told me to be careful what words I choose--as if I could implant scary in Dylan’s brain. He’s the one driving it for God’s sake. Come on, I gave into the whole dirt bike racing thing, as if I’d ever had a say. I allow my only son to race a speeding vehicle through the woods, dodging trees and other kids, and even cheer him on. A sport where you have to don helmet, goggles, chest protector, knee-high boots, gloves, special shirts and pants. There are no seatbelts. I have to watch this, but I can’t say it’s scary?
I beg to differ. I submitted because, gasp, I know that I don’t always know what’s best, for you or for me. Yes, life has taught me that. Mother does not always know best. I am not a boy, and do not have the childhood experiences to know what boys need. I didn’t even know what girls need. There’s only one in our household who literally wears the cup, and it’s not me.
Dylan has been taught to defend himself because his Daddy was the small child beaten up on. He has been taught to read because I love reading. He has been taught to play baseball because I believe in being a part of the team. He has been taught to do his homework diligently because both parents believe in having a brain. He has been taught to mind his manners, to be nice, to be a responsible member of society. He has been taught to not lie, steal or cheat. He has been taught love. He has been taught to be careful, because we are fragile.
And he has been taught to ride like the wind, because he is free.
Sometimes father knows best, but you didn’t hear it from me.