Young Writers Society

The following events are a true story

   It's hard to believe that around 8-9 years ago I was first learning how to ride a bike. Since my dad was deployed at the time, that left my mom to teach me. She threw me on our neighbor's bike and told me to pedal. We were in that cal-da-sac for hours in the unbearable Virginia summer heat. My mom was frustrated with me because I wasn't learning as quickly as my brother did and our neighbor's kids could both already ride their bikes. I fell several times and kept hurting myself. It was hot, I was crying, my knees were bleeding, and I had to listen to my mom go on about how she would make me sleep outside if I couldn't learn how to ride a bike.

In a moment I told my mom, "I want my daddy."

   She then turned to our neighbor and said angrily, almost embarrassed, "She's only saying that because her dad would have picked her up and given her a popsicle."

   And that was the day, one of the worst days of my life, that I chose my dad. Because he would not have screamed at me while I stood there with two bloody knees, he would have picked me and he would have given me a popsicle. I know this because when I finally mastered riding a bike, we moved to a small apartment in North Carolina. We never rode our bikes and by the time we moved to a bigger house when I was 10, I'd forgotten how to ride the bike.

   But you know what? I thank God that I forgot. Because I finally got to experience what it was like to have my dad teach me how to ride a bike. When I broke down in tears because my mom yelled at me, he took me to the gas station and let me pick out an ice cream. And instead of him pushing me away while on the bike, he held onto the handlebars as I pedaled and gently let me go. It's moments like these when you know that even though your parent isn't perfect, you would never ask for anyone else to raise you.