She got a new bike. With a bell.
She's been wanting one for some time, had already added it to her Christmas list, when her cousin showed up at Grandma's with just the thing, outgrown. "I have a bike for Owen. Is it okay to give it to her?"
Of course she's thrilled. Paul pushed her up and down Grandma's road--the same road where he learned to ride. Back home it's round and round the house on the porch. Our road is rutted, gravel, too difficult for a learner to navigate.
Another day, after supper, she presented an idea. "Can you take the training wheels off my bike and let me ride around the porch?"
Paul, working on his computer, considered. "I don't think the porch is the best place to learn. We need to take you to the park to ride sometime."
"Can we go now?" she asked.
Paul looked at me, my face buried in my own computer. Dinner was done. It was two hours until bedtime. He was playing Sudoku, I was on Facebook. There was nothing pressing really, except inertia.
Clearly our attention was needed. So we all went. Barrett, too. Even my mom.
And although the whole scene has been replayed thousands of times each of a hundred years--a father running alongside a kid on wobbly bike--this time it was my kid. And my kid's dad. And my toddler chasing after them.
My family. Our moment.
I'm so glad I didn't miss it.