Super convenient, right? Even with stopping to inspect at any foliage that dared fall to the ground, we are there within a minute of leaving our living room. The living room that houses the couch that Alex spilled his allergy medicine on this morning because he was too preoccupied with fast forwarding commercials during the Mythbusters episode he begged to watch 7 minutes of before we had to leave. That very living room. Aaaaaanyway...
We walked out the front door this morning and he stopped dead in front of the garage. It was at this point he informed me he wanted to bike to the bus stop. Yep. He wanted to bike the 66 freaking feet across the street. I said no because then I would have to drag his bike home. Oh, but he'll just ride it back to the house when he sees the bus. Ummmm, then when exactly are you planning on getting on the bus? Whatever. Fine. Ride your bike. This is not a battle I am willing to fight at 7:08AM. "Thanks Mom! Ummmm...where's my helmet?" Dude. Not my responsibility to keep track of where your helmet lands after you launch it from your head instead of hanging it on your handlebars like I have suggested every time you get off your bike. Since it was such a short ride, I proposed he could accomplish the task without a helmet. BLASPHEMY! He has to wear his helmet when he rides his bike Mom.
Finally he found the helmet, and he took off across the street. I caught up just in time to hear him telling the other kids about his bike and about how I raised the seat up for him because it was too low before. But the thing is, every time he tells someone I raised the seat for him, he finishes by saying, "She raised the seat so she didn't have to waste all her money buying me a new bike." Now while it is true that he still fits on the bike and raising the seat was an appropriate course of action as opposed to buying a new bike, never ONCE have I said I would be wasting my money buying him a new bike. So, if he could stop making me sound like a complete asshole mom, that would be great.
If you need me I will be addressing the scrapes I acquired from the pedals of his bike slamming into the back of my leg while I clumsily steered it the 66 feet back into the garage.
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