There are these days — and so often, they come right in the middle of winter — when I take the kids out to the cargobike and discover a line of ants leading up to the piece of bread dropped on the floor from the last trip, or realize the blanket is not going to keep them warm because it’s all wet from yesterday’s rain (alas, the rain fly is failing), or I have to go back inside, again, because I ALWAYS forget something.
And I think, for a split second: maybe it would be easier with a car.
Until I remember that the kids would drop food in a car, too.
And cars get wet in the rain, too.
And I would be no less forgetful in a car.
Then I think about the fresh air I’m getting; how I’m able to have a real conversation with my kids because they’re right in front of me; how I’m able to see my neighbors and goings-on of the neighborhood as I “drive” by; how there’s no better way to get a good sense of the weather for the day and watch the seasons changing than to be out in it; and how there’s really no better way to start the day than with a bit of movement of my legs.
And I remember why I love it and know this really is the only way to go.