It seems like just days ago that the PCP was tooling around the house on the Diego ride-along that Mimi and Ampa gifted him for his first birthday.
Before too long he had graduated from four wheels to three, favoring the classic red tricycle that Mimi and Ampa gifted him for his second birthday (are you noticing a theme here?).
He spent nearly two years in this phase before trading in the retro red trike with bell and poms for the sporty Tonka training bike. Come to think of it, Mimi went with me to what must be the only decent WalMart in the state to pick this beauty up one summer night in Savannah. (I sometimes wonder what the neighbors think of me… the only new girl on the block in forty years and my little rides the streets in their undies.)
This past Christmas, Sister and her Mister gifted the PCP a Razor scooter. For a good three months he didn’t touch the bike (the fact that I ran over it surely had nothing to do with that), trading in this three wheeled trainer for the “much more awesomer” two wheeled scooter. (When it’s too cold to run around the yard in our undies we go in fleecy sleepers, super hero garb and as many medals as we can scrounge up.)
So when the guilt of running over the bike finally got to me, I took Mimi out on another late night run to my dreaded neighborhood WalMart to purchase a new training bike. On a whim, I had Honey take the training wheels off and lo and behold, guess who rode their bike straight down the drive? I mean, no holding onto the back, no wobbling on the two wheels, no spills in the street or skins on the knees. He rode off just like an old pro and never looked back. Not that he’d be able to easily look back in this get-up (note the spidey mask, helmet, sword, nerf gun and hockey thingamajigs on his wrists.)
And Cookie is fast on his heels. I swear that he does everything quicker than brother, growing up at an accelerated rate. Last summer he spent his days on Diego.
And just as soon as the PCP surrendered the scooter for the big boy bike, Cookie mastered the darned thing at the ripe age of two (in the bee boots of all things.)