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I started to make this post the day after I was tagged by one of my wife's dear friends. As I tried to remember the story the way it was told to me, it occured to me that there was only one person who could do this properly: my MOM. So, let me intoduce Mom (I promised that her version of the story would not be edited in any way... these are her words, her way)...





I think Nick actually was a little over three years old when he had this experience. Not that it makes much difference. It was the spring before we moved into the farm house in October of 1980. The reason I remember is that it wasn't long after Nick's adventure that we found out Missy, born in 1981, was on the way. Here's the story from my point of view.
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We lived on a 50 acre farm when Nick was little, about a third of a mile down a little dirt lane from the main highway. It was a beautiful setting. A steep wooded hill stood as a backdrop for the farm, and, below the barn, cornfields lay like quilted patches, stitched between a winding creek and the dirt lane.

It had been a very long winter, and since we lived in a mobile home as we awaited purchase of the farm house, everyone was feeling a little cramped. It was one of the first warmer days in the spring. The grass was just beginning to green up a bit. A slight mist arose from the surrounding hills, signaling the spring meeting of warmer air and winter's chilled earth.

It seemed like a perfect day to let Nick explore the front yard all on his own.

Now, anyone who knows Nick very well will understand how significant it is if I say that from the time the child could deliberately grasp anything, he held a Matchbox vehicle in his hand. As he grew, so did the size of preferred vehicles. So, by the time he was three or so, he preferred a BIG WHEEL. I don't know if that's the correct name, but that was Nick's name for the contraption. It was one of those low-riding blue and orange plastic trikes, with a huge front wheel and handlebars that protruded over the top. I'm thinking there were many parents from the late 1970s who cursed the darn things.

Yes, a perfect day to let Nick explore the front yard all on his own. I had a perfect view of the yard. Could wash dishes, glance out a window to the yard. Check on Nick. Dart out the front door if necessary to rein him in. I was sort of getting the hang of the parenting thing, confident in my ability to multi-task.

'Cept I forgot about the BIG WHEEL, tucked out of sight by the corner of a garage. The BIG WHEEL ... a three-year old's ticket to freedom, to vast worlds unexplored, to mud puddles, which, when connected like dots, led down the country lane to the main highway.

As surely as I type this, I say I washed a dish, looked out to confirm Nick's whereabouts, washed another dish, looked out the window. No Nick. Dashed to the door, yelled his name. No Nick. I yelled again. "Nick!!" (Does it sound the same when Erin yells it?) Still no little figure appeared from anywhere. I went to the coat closet to pull out some boots, and just as I struggled with the second boot, raising my head to push open the door and blow outside all in one motion ... a sheriff's patrol car emerged over the little rise by the garage.

Now, I'm not sure of the distance from the house to the garage, but it was a nice little stroll. Nevertheless, I clearly could see two things. First, there was a BIG WHEEL in the trunk of the patrol car. Then, there was Nick, plastered in mud. Or, I should say, Nick's huge eyes looking out over the back seat of a patrol car (you know, from the place where handcuffed prisoners are seated?), framed on the bottom by his mammoth grin.

The Deputy who returned my little one was gracious enough. "Ma'am, is this your son?" he asked.

"Uhhh, I ... gbleeee, gblaaah." My tongue seemed to stick on my lower lip as I awkwardly gestured toward the one boot, still partly dangling from my foot. Perhaps as an experienced professional, he recognized the seizure-like spasms of a young mother who couldn't mouth any reasonable explanation for a purely poor demonstration of parenting skills.

Or maybe, just maybe, he felt sorry for Nick, whose BIG WHEEL turned out to be one of the first plastic recyclables.

I love you, Nick. Thanks for making it through with me.

As I stated before, this is the story from Mom's point of view. There is only one part of that day that I can remember: while I was headed out "the little dirt lane," the mud puddles were just way too enticing... so I rode into them like a powerful 4wd truck going through a huge mudhole. When I talked to my Mom about doing this, she asked me if there was any part that I remember about that story... and in my memories of my life, I believe that one certain mud puddle is my first "real" memory.

My Mom and I have been through a lot over the years, and there are things that I regret saying about her (things that at a younger age, I made up -- i.e., I lied -- and I'm deeply sorry that I did). Today, Mom and I get along fine, and I would help her with anything at anytime, at the drop of a hat (after all, she is the reason I'm here).

So Mom, when you read this all put together, this is for you:

I know that I was never really kind when I was young;
but please know that I appreciate everything now.
As a parent I now understand all the things you tried;
and now it seems so clear that all you ever did was love me.

Thank you, Mom, for all you have done and the support you continue to give me!