Into the great wide open, under the sky so blue

out in the big wide open, a rebel without a clue. . .

(Into the Great Wide Open, Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers)

I blame my mother. It wasn't my idea to take my 5 year old son Jack's training wheels off in the first place. "Nunna" was babysitting one afternoon a couple of months ago, and when I came home, the training wheels were gone. I panicked. I frantically searched the garage, and only found one (coincidence?). He didn't learn to ride that day, though not for lack of trying. My husband hung the bike in the garage from the ceiling rafters, and I said a little prayer of thanks under my breath. Disaster averted.

Several months passed. My parents came to stay with us for a couple of days. When I came downstairs this morning, I heard voices outside. They were in the driveway with Jack. My mom was in a pink bathrobe, barefoot, and my dad was standing in the yard, grinning, steam curling up from his Beatles coffee mug. The laughter was coming from my first-born, looking absolutely euphoric in grass-stained Sponge Bob pj bottoms, a white tee, and crocs. Sun was glinting off of his straight white baby teeth, anchored into his gumline like tiny pearl soldiers, not a hint of slant or wiggle among them. He was laughing like a mad man.

Jack had no helmet. He had no elbow or knee pads. Old school, baby. He was learning to ride from my parents, who believe that any safety breakthroughs made post 1975 are "ridiculous." This includes baby carriers, children's car seats, smoke detectors, child safety latches, seat belts, and, astonishingly, bicycle helmets.

Panic flooded into my extremities like molten lava. My eyes darted to each of the 4 other driveways on our small cul-de-sac. I imagined all 4 garage doors roaring open simultaneously; drivers throwing their cars into reverse at exactly the same time, rolling over my small son on his shiny blue two wheeler. I imagined a UPS truck careening around the corner, never seeing his little blond head at the end of the street, braking just seconds too late. It went on like that. Countless sickening scenarios in under 30 seconds.

At that very moment, the three of them sensed me standing there. Their faces all softened, and quieted, almost imperceptibly. I felt like the parent who came home early from work to find the teenagers busting into the liquor cabinet. Not a good feeling. I forced a smile in Jack's direction, feigning excitement. I held his bike helmet by the strap. It dangled at my side.

"Whatcha doing there, buddy?"

"Riding my bike, Mom! No training wheels. Wanna watch? Nunna and Pap are helping me!"

No. I didn't want to watch, but I couldn't help it. I was fascinated. His legs seemed so long without the training wheels, somehow. His neck also seemed longer, and as he lowered his head and chest over the handle bars, his skinny elbows jutted out at serious angles. He meant business. He bit his lower lip, two pearly baby teeth making him look all the more determined

My mom gave him a shove, and he wobbled, then put a foot down, glancing over his shoulder at me. He started again, same result - he bit his lower lip, growing frustrated. My Mom pushed him, he wobbled, he fell in the driveway.

He was sprawled out in the very same spot where we took him from the car when we brought him home from the hospital. My mind flashed forward. What other milestones was this driveway going to witness? 10 year old Jack tossing his scuffed duffel bag into my truck, as we head off for some as-yet unidentified sports practice? 15 year old Jack pinning a corsage on his date for the winter formal? (please don't let her break his heart, please don't let her break his heart, please don't let her break his heart)? 16 year-old Jack knocking over the trash cans with my hubby's Chrysler as he learns to navigate in reverse? 18 year old Jack, airplane ticket in hand, taxi at the curb, steamer trunk full of stuff for his freshman dorm, 2000 miles away from home?

But almost as quickly as I imagined them, all of those older Jacks vanished.

"Mom! I need you to push me! Please!"

So.

I took a deep breath, and smiled. By now, my husband was standing in the driveway, behind me, holding a camera. My own mom was clasping her hands under her chin, a tear rolling down her cheek. My dad was hiding behind his own camera.

I stepped forward, kneeled down and strapped on the helmet, brushing the blond hair off of his forehead. I steadied Jack by the seat, and handle bars. He beamed up at me as I started to walk him down the driveway, and then started to trot beside him on the sidewalk, pushing him from behind. We gathered a little speed like that. His legs pumped, the bike steadied itself, and suddenly, Jack and the bike were one entity, prepared for launch into the middle of the cul-de-sac. So I shoved a little, and glanced over at my husband, who was grinning, and giving me a little thumbs-up from behind the camera. I ran a few more steps. When I was sure he felt anchored, I ran a little faster, then faster. Finally, I just knew I couldn't keep up anymore. And only because I knew I had to, I let him go.