Sunday night, my four year old son is pumped. “Mom, our bike goes really, really fast!” he says, sleep beginning to show around the edges of the light in his brown eyes.
“Yep, and even faster when you pedal!” I say, reminding him of trail-a-bike teamwork.
The next morning is so different, no foot dragging, no reluctance. “Hurry up, Mom, we need to get rolling,” he says, dressed in record time and waiting for me for a change.
On the way down the Plymouth Rd. hill, another biker is trying to pass. Benjamin makes motor noises, and the biker makes his own. “We’re beating you!” my son yells in a cheerful challenge. He greets all pedestrians with his amazing smile and his loudest “good morning.” At the Main St. light, he chats with a motorist through an open window.
When we pull up to his pre-school on Ashley, all his friends crowd around the window. He’s a hero, and he is beaming. He graciously lets them try on his red helmet.
This Monday morning is a breeze, a breath of fresh air, a twenty-minute smile: for us and, I suspect, for each person my sunbeam son greeted on our commute.