Five minutes sitting in a park and it’s not hard to see that bicycle helmets might just be the root of all ill-will between parents and kids. Many an argument has been started over a pink Barbie helmet I’m sure. It’s July and it’s Georgia and it’s just the driveway and it’s not that big of a deal and it’s no one else is wearing one. When faced with a screaming six year old or a pouting ten year old or an eye-rolling fourteen year old, I’d bet that a lot of parents concede.
But my parents insisted.
You wanna ride that bike? Great, put on this top-of-the-line, 5-star-rated helmet. Every time. No questions. No options.
I had a lot of bicycle helmets growing up: Go inside if anyone pulls up the driveway while you’re playing, no trampolines, never dive if you don’t know how deep the water is, don’t talk to strange men with dogs, G-rated movies only, boosters seat until middle school, back seat not front, hold hands in parking lots, check left again.
If there was a helmet for any given situation, some sort of preventative measure, my parents made sure that it was secured properly on my head. My parents spun safety nets in preparation for the inevitable fall. I grew up cautious, a bit timid, and maybe just a little resentful. “Safe” and “sheltered” are often hard to distinguish between and I tended to view my life as the latter.
Love is a weird thing to me. In a lot of ways, it’s really abstract. It’s a feeling, a concept, a construct. But then everyone always says that love is a verb, an action. I don’t have too much experience with love, but from what I’ve seen, I think it’s somewhere in the middle, somewhere between words you can’t express and grand gestures.
It’s curfews and rear-side airbags. It’s “call me anytime” and double checking the locks. It’s forced self-defense classes and baby gates. Love is a constant stream of small, selfless actions, building and building to create the best life for the recipient.
It’s bicycle helmets.
Every time I strapped on my helmet and peddled off through Chalk City, safe and secure to explore the world created on our driveway, I internalized a vital lesson that my parents were accidentally teaching: Life is a dangerous adventure best tackled with love.
When the time comes for me to go toe to toe with my (inevitably-stubborn) child over wearing a helmet, I’m going to Sharpie on a big old heart right on the top of the helmet and send her on her merry way, pouting and complaining about her weird mom, but safe and oh-so-very loved.