Today was the day I thought I had no slice. I sat at the computer staring blankly at the curser, waiting for inspiration, trying to force my sluggish mind to come up with something, some moment, some triggered memory of importance to share. Then I walked away. I have all day, and other things to do. Other more important things to do.
Tonight I have my slice. A memory I will cherish forever. My daughter turns 13 on Monday and today she had friends over. She wanted tacos and rollerskating, so we kept it simple: make your own taco bar and head to the roller rink for an hour and a half, followed by cupcakes. But, while I love this memory, this is not my slice.
My slice is of an almost 10 year old boy, learning to skate with his mama, holding so tightly to her hand she has bruises. His wobbly, shaky legs going out from under him on more than a hundred occasions. Back up he goes, clutching her hand until he stands up straight, shuffling forward on his skates. He only goes part-way around before he leaves the circle to try again. Gathering his courage and working on his confidence until he decides he is ready to do the full loop. Around they go, him falling, her encouraging and cheering him on. He is not coordinated, but he tries so hard, never once saying he couldn’t do it. But he goes again and again and again, and he falls again and again and again, smiling and trying. And at the end of the night, it is this moment that she will remember, couples skating with her boy, teaching him how to move on wheels. He wants to go back and so does she.