Confessions of a Reckless Parent

Finding the line between making and breaking.

The first time I nearly killed my son, we both cried, but only one of us went to the hospital. It was just a few months ago when the pandemic had fallen to an end-of-summer lull and he was getting ready to go back to preschool.

We hopped on our bikes for one last loop around the neighborhood, just to try to stretch the day out a little bit longer. He was still three and was riding a bike I had picked up for free on the side of the road. I was riding an expensive racing bike I was borrowing from a friend.

We weren’t far from home when the chain fell off his bike, but it was too dark for me to quickly fix it. We decided to ditch his bike in the bushes and head home together on my bike.

Chapman and I have always shared a special adventure connection. We can run through the woods at full tilt, and just at the second where he needs a boost up over a log, my hand reaches out to grab his. So tossing him up on the handlebars of my bike for the short ride home was second nature to me.

His shoulders settled in against my collarbones and I could smell the sweat of the day in his hair.

We were within sight of our house when the situation took a turn. In a confusing, horrifying instant, we both flipped over the handlebars of my bike and landed face down on the road. Since he was in front, he hit the pavement first and I followed, landing on top of him a split-second later with the full force of my body.

It hurt. It was ugly. It was scary.

My body screamed, but I scooped him out of the road and carried him to our neighbor's yard. He cried from the pain, I cried out of fear. He was bleeding from his face, hands, knees, hips, and belly. I didn’t know it at the time, but so was I. The skin around his left eye had been scraped off and the raw flesh bulged as his eyeball filled with blood.

After a few deep breathes, I carried him home to our living room, where I was able to look him over and see that the injuries, though scary, were superficial. My chest tightened when I unclipped his helmet and saw that the inside had cracked in nine separate places.

Later, when I recreated the scene for my husband, I realized that Chapman had tried to scoot himself up higher on the handlebars by stepping on the front brake pads. When he did, the front wheel stopped dead, as we continued our path forward. On my usual bike — a cheap old clunker — that would have been no big deal. But the fancy borrowed bike I was riding had hair-trigger brakes that could stop on a dime.

When Chapman heard me explaining this, he apologized, thinking it was his fault.

“No, buddy,” I assured him, “it was my fault. It’s my job to keep you safe and I didn’t do a very good job at it tonight.

Later, I drove myself to the hospital for some stitches on my chin. As I sat in the waiting room, I couldn’t decide if I was a terrible mom or an awesome mom. On one hand, my son was about to go back to school with a faceful of road rash and it was my fault. On the other hand, at age three, he was cruising around on a two-wheeled bike as if it was no big deal.

Sure, he gets some credit for being a good bike rider. But I think I get more. Before he could walk, he spent hours riding around in a little plastic seat on the back of my bike. Then he moved to a trailer that hitched up to my seat post. The final transition to his own bike was easy — and adorable — thanks to the many hours we’d already spent riding bikes together.

Over the next few weeks, all of our injuries healed, and our bike accident became a distant memory.

But then last weekend, we had another crash together. We were on our favorite ski mountain after the first big storm of the winter. Now Chapman is four and has become a pretty good skier for a little guy. So we took the chairlift all the way to the top of the mountain to try out some more challenging terrain.

We started our descent to find that the conditions were pretty difficult. Where I had expected soft, forgiving snow, we found hamburger-sized chunks of ice. Chapman started to hesitate before finally sitting down in the middle of the trail. I couldn’t tell at first because of his mask and his reflective goggles, but he was crying. The steep trail and the icy conditions were too much.

We took a break for a moment, but I knew we needed to keep going or we would lose momentum and get cold. I scooped him up by the armpits and positioned him in front of me with my hands clasped around his chest. His skis were between my skis and we started carefully heading down the mountain.

It was slow going, but I felt confident that we would make it to the bottom without incident. And then the edge of his ski slipped under the edge of my ski, preventing me from slowing down or turning. We started accelerating out of control, and because of the ice-balls, I couldn’t do anything to stop us.

If there were other options, I couldn’t think of them, so I did the only thing that seemed possible: I flung both of our bodies backward onto the hard snow. Our helmets smashed together and our skis twisted and spun as the two of us flipped over each other and skidded to a stop at the edge of the trail.

We ended with our heads pointing down the mountain and our faces pointed towards each other. No blood this time and only a few tears. We started to collect our gear and sat for a moment watching the other skiers race by.

“Mom,” Chapman gushed, “this reminds me of our bike crash!”

While we gathered ourselves, an employee of the mountain skied over to us and for a moment, I felt relieved that someone had come to help us get ourselves down the mountain.

Instead, though, she said, “You two just look so adorable sitting there — do you mind if I take your picture for our Facebook page?”

It’s been a few days since our last crash, and I find myself still wondering what kind of a parent I am. Should I learn my lesson and put us in bubble wrap, safely on the couch in front of Netflix? Are these crashes a sign that I’m nuts? Should we stick to sandbox toys and juice boxes?

I don’t think so and here’s why.

Outdoor adventure is never free from risk. My son is learning that if you spend enough time outdoors, eventually something bad is going to happen. But he’s also learning that you can prepare for it by wearing a helmet and always going with a buddy — even if it’s your crash-crazy mom. He’s learning that his body is tough, and even though it hurts, he can still get up and keep going. And hopefully, he’s learning that his mom isn’t a wimp who’s too scared to face the elements and have a great time, even if it sometimes ends badly!

As much as I’d like to justify our adventures as life lessons though, my real confession is this: I love being outdoors with Chapman and pushing our limits together. I love seeing him develop confidence and coordination when he tackles new challenges. I love seeing the joy on his face when he experiences the freedom of movement that comes from moving fast under your own power. Also, I love the moments where I can be a mom without feeling like a mom — no laundry, cooking, or cleaning when you’re on an adventure!

Is it selfish of me to take him on these adventures? Maybe a little. But I still think there are worse things I could be doing — like not taking him on any adventures at all!