(also known as My Near Heart Attack):
My seven year old got a skate board for his birthday a couple of months ago. Tucked inside the helmet was a promise for an hour-a-day, week-long skateboard summer camp.
(I really hesitated about this gift because 1. my son is not athletic by nature 2. he doesn't like pain 3. skateboarding is really hard 4. I don't like my children to bleed, just to name a few. But my hubby, who rarely insists on anything, insisted).
The pamphlet promised the teaching of basic skills and tricks for boys ages 6-10 in our city's skate park.
It was and I quote comma "a dream come true" for him. At least that's what he told me 98 times between his birthday in May and the camp this past week.
I think I should have visited the park first.
Or hidden the skateboard.
Because. Y'all. It was a cement crater burrowed deep into the ground.
Most of the boys were older and already had basic skateboarding skills. I wanted to just consider this a BIG MISTAKE and whisk my 57 pound boy back to the car.
Instead, I patted him on the back, handed him a bottle of water, watched him swallow his fear and pushed him into the deep skate bowl.
Just kidding.
But I did walk away. It was a long walk.
I watched the other minivans pull away leaving their sons in the care of an overgrown skater boy-man. I watched from the car.
At one point during the camp, he smashed his finger. I wanted to run to him, but I waited. I watched him fight back tears, console himself and get up to try again.
It was a good thing to see.
During a frustrating moment, he decided to quit and walked out to the car. I pointed to the skatepark and sent him back.
To the skate bowl.
During the last 5 minutes of the camp, I watched him disappear into the crater and heard the instructor call out, "We have a bleeder."
It turns out it wasn't my son.
But I felt good about the bowl, either way.
