So Much Portends From a Little Bicycle

I want to write a post about my son, who has autism, learning to ride a bike -- slowly, in careful stages, with support from research on teaching bike riding to kids like him from bloggy friends, and with the tireless help of my husband.

And somehow I want it also to be about my daughter, the princessy one, who watched this lengthy process, and cheered her heart out when her brother rode down the street for the first time, even though she usually prefers to be the center of attention.

I would, of course, need to fold in how, after all that observation, my girl, two years younger, hopped on her bike the day after and then rode down the street successfully the first time out of the gate.

From there I would segue three years of potty training my son, as my daughter watched, then potty trained herself.

I'd tell you how epically much my children fight, and how hard -- um, excruciating -- that has been, and how in spite of all that seems so unbearable related to that, they actually learn a tremendous amount from one another, and how the depths of their intricate bonds will likely continue to reveal themselves in beautiful ways for years if I will just learn to relax and quit freaking out when they argue.

But all this stuff is quite emotionally draining. I am euphoric, and I am nearly incoherent. So remind me to tell you about this stuff sometime when I'm not so spent. I might have a few things to say.