The past is not the past!

I most certainly did NOT want to take our kids to the roller-skating rink. The place is too hot for July — no air-conditioning! I was also full of ice cream, polishing off two cones that were too much for our youngest ones.

But these reasons made me seem like an old fart.

Instead, I told my wife that we couldn’t skate because none of us had socks. This seemed like the perfect excuse … until she pointed out that the rink sells socks.

I helped our kids into their rental skates and new socks — “Yours to keep,” the employee smiled. Grumbling to myself, “Lucky me,” I pulled on my own tube socks, laced up my skates and wobbled onto the rink to Taylor Swift’s “Bad Blood.”

My kids had only been skating once before in their entire lives, which would have been obvious to any outside observer. In fact, there were a dozen or so spectators perched on rickety wooden benches just outside the rink, mostly grandmothers (including my wife’s mom) and a few lucky dads.

My oldest and youngest children stuck close to the handrail. Better safe than sorry. But the middle child, trying hard to skate on his own, had a couple of sprawling crashes. I tried to help, but the truth is that I only know vague advice like “Bend your knees!”

My son managed to wheel over to his grandmother in the bleachers and sat there in tears.

Looking at him, my childhood memories circa 1989 became as vivid as the sweaty, metallic smell from the handrail. I was back at that friend’s birthday party when I crashed, legs splayed, in front of everyone. And the cool kids zoomed by, laughing at me. Eventually, I sat alone in the spectator area, fighting back tears.

Ah, so that was the real reason that I didn’t want to come to the rink. As my friend, Melissa Butler, wrote, “Childhood may be a memory, but you as a child is always.”

I gave my son a few minutes with his grandmother. Then, I slowly rolled over to him and offered my hand. He shook his head, and I didn’t pressure him. I managed to skate another slow lap around the rink. But approaching the peanut gallery once again, I saw him get up — he reached for me! I blinked back tears and grinned at him with pride.

Maybe my son will never be a great skater. Who cares? I hope he remembers that he tried something hard and fell down, but got back up and tried again.

Of course, I’ll also keep my tube socks, which are very 1980s.

Andrew Taylor-Troutman is the author of “Little Big Moments,” a collection of mini-essays about parenting, and “Tigers, Mice & Strawberries: Poems.” Both titles are available most anywhere books are sold online. Taylor-Troutman lives in Chapel Hill where he serves as pastor of Chapel in the Pines Presbyterian Church and occasionally stumbles upon the wondrous while in search of his next cup of coffee.

 

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