How far would your kid run for a bike?

When I was about ten years old, my bike was stolen. It was only the second bike I'd ever owned, and my first ten-speed, made distinctive by the lavender-and-pink paint my stepmother had airbrushed on the frame (I'm pretty sure the bike had been second-hand when given to me). Coming from a family of modest means, I had always been taught to take good care of my things, and I usually did--but I was scatterbrained, too. One night I left the bike in the gravel behind my small-town home, and the next day it was gone.

I was heartbroken. That bike was my means to getting around the neighborhood quickly. It meant I could make it to the corner store six blocks away and back for a Little Debbie Swiss Roll even if there were only ten minutes left before I had to be home. And I knew I wasn't getting another any time soon. My mother made very little money from the home daycare she ran in order to be available to us kids as a single mom. My dad and stepmom were on a tight budget and weren't likely to reward my carelessness with a new bike. It was time to face facts: I was bikeless. Indefinitely.

But a few weeks later, I was playing in a friend's backyard when I caught a flash of lavender and pink out of the corner of my eye. My bike! And riding it, a full-grown woman.

Before I go on, let me describe the kind of kid I was: timid, conflict-shy and definitely very respectful--almost fearful--of authority figures, which pretty much described all adults. But that was MY bike. So I jumped off my friend's swing and tore out of her yard in hot pursuit, leaving the gate flapping and "THAT'S MY BIIIIiiiiiiiiiiikkkkeeee!" trailing behind me.

I followed the woman on foot for six blocks, my ten-year-old legs pumping to keep up. Finally, I caught up with her, as she waited for traffic to slow to cross the street in front of the corner store. I don't remember exactly what I said, but when I went back to my friend's house, I was pedaling and the woman--at least 20 years older than me--was walking.

I thought about this story the other day, when I was contemplating buying my oldest son a new bike. In his short life, he's had several bikes. He's outgrown a few, one was left behind in a move, one was stolen and the other was hit by a car when he left it lying where the driveway meets the street at our old house. He was disappointed both times. But I never got the sense that given a circumstance like I faced at 10, my son would be inclined to race after the bike and demand that a grown-up give it back to him. My son is braver than I was at that age, and probably stronger and faster, too. But he's simply not as motivated, because when push comes to shove, the truth is I'd probably buy him a new one. (I'm proving that right now, as I look for a new bike.) He's also less motivated to have a bike in the first place, because unlike me, his bicycle is not key to life as he knows it. After all, he doesn't count on it to get him around. (That's what I'm for, eh?) It's ME that wants him to have a bike, because I hope it'll encourage him to play outside more and, as he gets older, get himself where he has to go rather than depending on me for it all the time. But while fun, to him bicycling is optional for getting around. And if given the choice, the computer would generally win out for recreation. Besides, he knows kids who get new bikes every year, whether they need them or not; new clothes every month, new toys every week. What's another bike every couple of years?

We are far from rich, but we're definitely more financially comfortable than my mom was while I was growing up. And while I'm guessing that my dad and stepmom had a middle-class income, they lived well within those means, which meant you re-used, reduced, made do or did without. As my husband and my income creeps up year after year and our lifestyle seems to expand to meet it, I try hard to raise un-spoiled kids who appreciate the things they are given. But sometimes it feels like swimming upstream against our culture and even my own habits, which have become decidedly more consumerist since I was ten.

I want my son to respect and appreciate his things, but am I being a good teacher? After all, It would be dishonest and hypocritical for me to tell my son that I can't afford to buy him a new bike when he's seen us drop easily that much on restaurant meals in the past month or two, (though as of late I've definitely been working on scaling way back on our consumption & spending, both for financial and ecological reasons.)

Part of me feels like whether or not I can afford it is beside the point: as an adult who works hard for my money, it's my prerogative--not my kid's--to decide how that money is spent. So we eat out and occasionally treat ourselves with material goods? So what--my son should still take care of his stuff because it's the right thing to do, right? But I can hardly blame a kid who's been raised in a culture of "Broken? Out of style? Tired of it? Eh, just buy another" and "Don't feel like cooking? That's what takeout is for!" to feel the same kind of love and protectiveness I had for my possessions when I was his age.

Sure, there's no proof that my hot pursuit of justice and my ten-wheeler made me a better person than I'd have been if my mom had had the means to just buy me a new one. But I feel like I learned something very important growing up as a kid in a poor household. It wouldn't be impossible for my kids to learn similar lessons, but it would certainly take a lot more work. And that work sometimes looks exhuasting when compared to the relative ease of just picking up another bike, grabbing some takeout, and moving on, already.

I've been thinking a lot about the expectations this culture puts on parents. We don't even feel "qualified" to procreate until we've got job security, a nice home, and money in the bank. Then, we work so hard to give our kids a "better" standard of life than what we had (it's the American Dream, right?). We want to dress them in stylish clothes, buy them beautiful wooden toys, give them their own bedrooms in nice, tastefully decorated homes, and expose them to music and arts and culture and ethic foods. I want some of those things for myself. But sometimes I wonder if the message it's all sending my kids is skewed.

'Cause as far as I'm concerned?

None of it means a thing if those same kids don't have the gumption and motivation to take off running after something that means a lot to them.

--An Original Chicago Moms Blog post

--Meagan blogs about her attempts to raise a thoughtful bunch 'o boys at www.meaganfrancis.com