endo

Dylan,

Moments ago you went over the handlebars of your bike for the first time. Well, sort of over them. More like onto them, really.

See, you've (finally) grown just barely enough to propel yourself slowly forward on your little hand-me-down bicycle from Emma and Ian by rubbing the toes of your shoes against the ground one at a time, left right left right.

We had tootled down the sidewalk as far as nearly two whole front yards where we stopped to admire the neighbors aging piles of small landscaping rocks and were on our way home again. You got off balance, then a little tangled, then the bike went down and brought you with it.

You landed over one side of the now slightly twisted handlebars. I picked you up. You were crying and I asked where it hurt. You pointed to the bike. I righted your mount, identified it's owie, and straightened things out with the tiny front tire between my feet, a grip in one hand and you in the other.

Then I carried you both home.

Dad