Crazy is one of those kids that make other parents think that I am in fact crazy, and that’s what makes him awesome.
Last weekend I took Crazy to a skatepark, and I have no idea if that is in fact a word, we live in France and this is what they call it here. I’m growing too used to English words being used in French in ways that make absolutely no sense, such as restaurants advertising a “Fooding Experience” or stores that advertise their “Hard Discount” pronounced of course “ard discoont”. Anyway, a skatepark a la Francaise, is a park where pre-teens and teens go to ride their bikes, skateboards or whatever device they choose over ramps, and through half pipes and what not.
Crazy is three and LOVES to ride his bike (without training wheels) through this same park. It doesn’t really bother me when he does this, I am in fact more impressed than anything, because I am far too terrified to do some of the things he does. And sure he falls, but kids fall and he gets back up and back to it as if nothing has happened. This is the part where parents look at me like I’m the crazy one. On Saturday he went head of handle bars after missing the bottom of the ramp by a few inches. Three or four parents gasped like the sky was falling and came running to check on him. I wandered over casually while continuing to read my blackberry, he of course was not crying and had this kind of “THAT WAS AWESOME” excited look on his face. I help him up, straightened his helmet and sent him on his way again.
The other parents looked at me like I was completely out of my mind as I sauntered back, still reading my blackberry to where I had been standing. A few minutes later, in what I assume was an attempt to do the same thing, he didn’t quite make it head OVER handle bars, but instead head INTO handle bars. Again, he didn’t cry, again all of the parents gasped like the world was ending and I casually walked over. This time he split his lip and was bleeding ever so slightly; we cleaned him and off he went again. By this point, parents were staring at me like I’m a total nutjob for letting my three year old have fun like this.
About ten minutes later while trying and failing for the third or fourth time to make it up a ramp, he broke down and started crying. The other parents looked at me again, because they couldn’t understand why the little guy started crying when nothing else seemed to bother him. While he can handle and even ENJOY flying off his bike in ways that terrify most sane people, poor little Crazy, much like myself just can’t handle frustration. So we went home. I may have dreamed it, but I’m pretty sure I heard the other parents applauding.