Free and Furious

Like most mornings, I was up well before the sun.  

I had set my alarm the night before, but as usual, I did not need it.  

My alarm, since I can remember, has always been internal, and my body's rhythm, reliable.     

I turned the alarm off so it wouldn't accidentally wake Barrett up, and I snuck into the bathroom. 

I began my morning routine of piling my heavy, red hair on my head, splashing some warm water on my face, and then sneaking out of the bedroom to a long, dark, quiet hallway.  

Experience, discipline, and habit have been good friends, teaching me that when I care for body and spirit first, the rest of the day comes together much easier, with more positivity, and much more productivity.  

A bit groggy still, I filled my water bottles at the kitchen sink and stumbled out to the garage.  I pushed my bottles into their holders, bent over to velcro my old, pink cycling shoes, and then stood up to snap the buckle of my helmet in place.  I thought I was alone.

I was not.

My mini-me had followed me into our messy garage that morning.  Like her mom, she is an early riser.  She catches the day at its fresh beginning and gives it all she's got for the next fourteen hours - usually in a pair of shiny, rainbow Converse sneakers, unbrushed hair, and a zippy spirit.  

 

She had a focused look on her face as she silently strapped on the purple and white rollerblades she had begged me to buy her a few months before, "Mom, I need a pair of rollerblades.  I promise I'll use them," I recalled her saying.  She knew she could push and I'd give in, because if there's something I encourage - basically demand - of my children, it is physical activity.  We went to Dick's that afternoon and by dinner, she had broken them in with ninety-eight laps around the block.  

She stood up in the rollerblades, smiling like she always does, and started to blade out of the garage. 

I suddenly felt a tad bit of mom-guilt and wondered if she was up because I was up and she wanted me to stick with her instead of going on my ride.

"Leah, it is 6:00 in the morning; sweetie, no one else will be outside playing yet," I said, insinuating I wasn't about to be available either.

"So," she quickly responded, with a flick of her hair and a shrug of her shoulders.

"Well, you'll be skating by yourself." 

My eight-year-old daughter looked at me, puzzled.  The sun was beginning to make her appearance and for a moment, I didn't get why Leah had followed me out into the garage that morning.      

You see, I had neglected to be self-aware, that the very habit I was standing there questioning in her, was one I had been modeling since the day she was born:  get up, meet the sun, and care for your body doing something you love to start the day.

She loves her blades.  

The spin of the wheels under her feet, the speed they allow her to go (speeds she can't reach on foot), and the feeling of freedom she has when she is on them - in her lungs, spirit, core, and mind, were the same exact reasons I was about to leave the garage on my road bike. 

She seeks freedom too.  

She seeks independence from the mundane work of online school, household chores, and the home she is confined to all day long.  

Her blades - whether she knows it or not - remind her she is strong, capable, fast, and resilient.  I've never seen her not get back up after she has fallen.

And she has fallen.  

Leah is a risk-taker - on blades, scooters, and skateboards.

I once looked out the window to see her leading the neighborhood boys on a sidewalk skating adventure - one they were much more wobbly at than her.  She was giving directions, instructing them on which things to avoid, and telling them what to go up and down.

In her blades, she is in charge - of her body, speed, direction, endurance, and will.

For me to question whether she will enjoy blading when she is alone, is like asking a fish if they want to go for a swim.  Because at 6AM or 4PM, alone or not, she has decided to do what makes her happy and what empowers her to feel most like herself.  

Standing there in the garage, like the helicopter parent I was being, I realized Leah is already living into what many adults never discover - being able to spend time alone and finding something they love to do. 

"Ok girl, Mom is headed out for her ride.  You GO!  Go rollerblade and enjoy yourself!"

I've stopped telling her to be careful on blades because I know she is not going to be.  That morning, like all other times she is on them, she will push her limits in balance, agility, and strength.

The truth is, that is how I want her to be - on the blades, and in life.

"Ok Mom, have fun on your ride!" she yelled as I pedaled out of the driveway towards the rising sun and the trail about to challenge me - happy, free, and doing what I love.  

And content to be doing it alone.

Shalom,

Annette