The following is written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
The frame was a basic white, but the wheels were pink – strawberry frosting pink. I had coveted it from the moment I saw it in the back of K-Mart. I dreamed of performing death-defying BMX tricks.
My grandparents bought it for me to help ease my heartbreak when I moved away from them. And, when my homesickness and loneliness would swallow me up, I would hop on my bike and pedal until my legs would shake.
When my young, wild, addicted parents would yell and hit each other, my bike took me away – into the woods that backed up to our apartment complex in our one stoplight Appalachian town. I would cruise along the river bank, swerving around roots and always looking out for half-dollar sized turtles that I would place in the front basket until I could get it home and make a home for it out of an old milk jug.
It didn’t matter if the sun was hot enough to blister my skin nor the air cold enough to freeze my lungs, I would ride my bike until I heard the buzz of the street lights kick on when it was time for me to hightail it home.
I never became a BMX bandit, but that bike gave me an escape from my dire reality, it gave me a small amount of control over my chaotic world and it allowed me to ride out of the hole that I often felt that I was standing at the bottom of.
Eventually, I grew up and stopped riding my bike.
Lately, I have found myself back in that hole. It has been a heavy couple of months and it has made my soul tired. Despite my advocacy for real strength being found in vulnerability, I still have a hard time admitting when I am buckling under the load. I do the thing that I despise in others…I insist that I am fine. Damn, I hate that word.
Despite daring them to question my fineness, I get irritated that others believe my bullsh*t. It’s one of the ways I occupy my time down in the hole. I also invite self-pity and self-loathing over and we get a proper party started.
The last time I found myself down in my hole, I spent a winter on the couch watching the “Gilmore Girls”. I daydreamed that that my mom was Lorelei and I was Rory – just a dynamic, fast-talking, quick-witted mother and daughter duo who beat the odds. I also started following the Gilmore Girls’ diet. Quick tip: if you eat like the Gilmores, you will absolutely not look like the Gilmores.
This time it happened in the summer, when my Rory, the magical little creature that reminds me of warm spring breezes and favorite books and sunrises over the Appalachians, is home. Although she would probably be totally down with a steady diet of Pop Tarts and pizza while binging Netflix, I knew that wasn’t what either of us needed.
So, I dusted off my bike. This one has standard black tires and they were flat as frisbees from years of inactivity. However, I pumped them up, took a quick spin around the back yard to make sure that the old adage was true and told Conley that we were going for a bike ride. It was a little rocky at first as my daughter wanted to take her time and enjoy the scenery and I, her Type A mom, wanted to see how far we could get in the least amount of time.
However, we kept going back – keep going back. A few times a week, we strap on our helmets, fill up our water bottles and set off. We’ve found our rhythm. Conley is doing a bang up job of trash talking and I am learning that sometimes it’s not about winning the imaginary race that I am constantly running against my ego.
And, we’ve talked. We’ve talked about faith and religions. We’ve talked about bigotry and prejudice. We’ve talked about what Harry Potter house we would be sorted into (she is 100% a Hufflepuff and while I told her that I was definitely a Gryffindor, let’s face it, I’m probably straight up Slytherin). We talked about how we didn’t think that Black Widow should have taken one for the team in Avengers: Endgame.
She tearfully told me that she was nervous to start fifth grade because that meant that she only had one more year in elementary school. I told her that if I could figure out a way to put her back in my womb I would do it.
I also told her that it was okay to be nervous and scared and worried sometimes. I admitted to her that I’ve been nervous and scared and worried a lot this summer. I thought that it was a mistake to tell her this. I didn’t want her to think that her mama wasn’t some kind of super hero. But, I could see relief wash over her face when I was honest with her.
She seemed to inherently understand that we could both ride out of our holes.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
