One of my worst childhood memories was when I was in preschool. I was about three years old when the class had playtime and the activity was a tricycle race. I never rode a tricycle before and it looked like it would be fun. I remember the race took place in the church hallway; I wasn’t sure if we were in the basement or not, but I remember it wasn’t much lighting. I was sitting on the tricycle with two other kids next to me. I was nervous because I never learned to ride a trike but I thought, “How hard could this be?”
When the teacher said go, the other kids sped quickly down the hall. I was trying to push the pedals as hard as I could, but it felt like I wasn’t going anywhere. I don’t remember if the teacher was coaching me on or not but it didn’t matter because I felt alone. The two kids that were beside me came back down to the finish line and I recall the next two kids coming up beside me as I barely made it to the end of the hall. The other kids swerve back around to the starting line as I turned around to make it slowly back. The next set of kids came up and then came back to the starting line. My legs were getting tired and I remember the tears streaming from my eyes as I was trying not to be the last one to finish. Every kid had their turn racing their trikes and I was the only one that the teacher was waiting for. I started into a panic cry because I felt defeated and embarrass because I couldn’t ride a trike. Why didn’t my parents teach me to ride a trike? I promised myself that I wouldn’t shelter my children so they can experience the joy of childhood. One of those experiences is riding a tricycle.
