I never thought the image of defeated motherhood would have two wheels. But many things surprise you as a mom.
My beloved bicycle has accompanied me over thousands of miles of riding. Currently, its back wheel is decidedly non-functional. If I pumped it up to its full pressure or God forbid, rode on it, the whole thing would burst like an overinflated balloon. Even more importantly, the bike’s chain is twisted to heck. I would crash with the first push of the pedal.
My bike isn’t normally in this state. In fact, it’s like this because of a promise I made. A few weeks ago, I promised my five-year-old that we would go for his first “big kid bike ride.” While he’s biked endless loops around the playground, this would be the first time we’d go on a multi-use trail together, both of us on our individual bikes.
But something blocked my way.
A flat tire. This flat tire wasn’t from a pothole or gravel on a mountain biking trail. Nothing so glamorous. Nope, it was because the Washington D.C. region – where I live – gets hot as hell in the summer if hell had 90 percent humidity. Every few years, it gets so unbearably hot in our shed where I store the bike that the air in my tires expands so much it busts the tubes. That semi-annual occurrence happened last week. As I usually use a bikeshare bike in my commute, I didn’t even notice it until my husband moved my bike to get the lawnmower.
So several nights ago, I was out on our back deck at 10 PM, struggling to replace the tube on my flat tire. Swatting away moths, I unscrewed the bolt and took off the wheel. Running my finger around the tire, I pulled out the flat tube. After unrolling and putting a new tube in place, I started to pump it up. That’s when everything went pear-shaped.
No matter what I did, it inflated unevenly. I’d push down one side and the other side would pop up. I’d run my nail along the wheel in hopes of shifting things and all I’d end up with was a pinched finger. In an attempt to do something different, I put the tire back on the bike. Instead, I just ended up fumbling with the screw and twisting up the chain.
Trying to solve the problem reminded me of the complex word problems in my college ecology classes. I’d get the answer and know it was wrong. But I simply couldn’t pinpoint what went wrong, much less know how to fix it.
So I gave up. Simply gave up. I sat on the wooden floor of my deck in defeat. I walked in the door and told my husband, “I can’t do it.” I did that even knowing I would have to say the same words to my son the next day.
Usually, I never, ever give up. I do hard things, after all.
But that night I did. Because sometimes, giving up is okay. Sometimes, it’s even good. Giving up reminds us that we can’t do everything. It reminds us that it’s okay to ask for help. It reminds us that proving something ridiculous to ourselves isn’t as important as our mental and emotional health. A dose of humility isn’t a bad thing in life.
The next day, I brought that humility to my son. “I couldn’t fix my tire. I need to bring it to REI, so we won’t be able to go biking this weekend.” He shrugged, said “Okay” and went back to whatever imaginary world I pulled him out of.
Instead of our ride that weekend, we went on a hike st the nearby Nature Center together – just us. It was perfect. We’ll eventually go on our ride, even when it’s not exactly when I thought it would be.
Sometimes you just can’t win in parenting, even at things you think you’re good at. Sometimes, you just need to be humble and recognize your weaknesses. Sometimes, you just need to ask for help. If that help comes in the form of your friendly neighborhood bike technician, so be it.
For more hard-won lessons learned on parenting, check out Why I’m Taking Parenting Advice from a Cartoon Turtle.
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