I Want to Ride My Bicycle

"I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike.
I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it where I like. . ." - Queen



I've often wondered that four children who were raised by the same parents can be so different.



From the moment that my two oldest children turned fourteen, they were making preparations to get their driving permits on their fifteenth birthdays. They were not deterred by grades, grounding, employment - they met whatever criteria thier Dad and I laid out and had that piece of plastic in hand tout de suite! Sweet!



Halfway Between (10 & 20) finds himself in no rush. He's actually halfway between 15 & 16 nowadays, and is quite nonchalant about the whole issue of driving.



We've made suggestions: "Yep, it's about time you get a job so that you can start paying your car insurance. . ."



We've made observations: "Not much room for a date there on your skateboard. . ."



We've offered bribes: "The Mombus could be yours someday soon. . ."



He just shrugs, tossles his hippie hair and says, "Ahh, I don't need a license. I have a sister with a license. And I have a bike."



He actually has several. He saved up a few summers ago to purchase his $300 Hoffman Bike, which he still spit-shines every now and then. He also rescues bikes from junk piles and garage sales - leaving my garage floor looking like "Dr. Frankenbike's Mad Labratory."



I suppose someday he'll have to break down and enter the world of the gainfully employed and licensed to kill. In the meantime, he leaves me scratching my head and pondering whether he was switched at birth.



It's a good thing he's so good-looking, otherwise I'd really start to wonder. . .



Have fun!