“What was your favorite part of today?” I ask MotoKid as he climbs into bed. Tonight he turns over his head, his mop of unkempt burnished hair fluffs on his pillow. “Just getting to ride my dirt bike.”
Some days the answers are pointed towards an achievement of a goal; hitting the big double for the first time, a podium finish, or a hole shot.
Other days, like today, it’s about joy. Our current world climate reminds me how truly privileged we are. All of us reading this, if our kids have the ability to go ride a dirt bike through trails, up hills, around an oval or terrained track (hell, through their grandpa’s field even!) we are extremely privileged.
“Anything in particular?” I pry. The competitor in me wants to hear some excitement in finding speed or anything that makes me feel like he’s loving the chase of the race. “Mmm, no. I just really like riding my bike,” MotoKid huffs with a shrug of his shoulder. It’s scarred pink, a nice scrape against his already summer-tanned skin. I think it’s from his yard sale a couple weeks ago. His eyes close, dark lashes rest on his sun burnt cheeks. I see flecks of dirt on his temples. He didn’t scrub the day’s remnants off very well. I still fight him to shower.
I turn to flip the light, making note of the trophies and plaques lining his room walls.
“Mom?” MotoKid mummers as I pull his door closed, “What was your favorite part?” His eyelids never lifting.
“Buddy my favorite part was watching you do what you love.” The corner of his lips twitch up, slightly to a hint of a tiny smile.
I pull the door closed behind and stop for a moment. I finish my response, but only in my head, And knowing that you made it home safe.