Scoot scoot!

When I called my dad in Chicago to show off that his grandson was gliding up and down Reade Street like a pro, he laughed and said, “Oh, you got him the patineta del Diablo? The devil’s scooter?” I gasped and said, “Pa! Why would you say that?” Chuckling he replied, “because when people see you chasing after your kid they will think the Devil’s gotten into you”.
Growing up in the South Side of Chicago taught me at an early age to duck at the sound of shootings on “L” platforms inside crowded trains. Now, my heart beats fast and I develop a new type of anxiety as I chase my zig zagging 3 year-old son up and down TriBeCa streets and yelling “Slow down! Diego! STOP!!!” as he zips by focused New Yorkers, minding their business but aware to dodge and move out of the way at the hundreds of toddlers and children on scooters. I find myself apologizing, embarrassed to pedestrians who sometimes do (or don’t) feel the impact of a 35 pound boy on wheels crash on their heels. Some people avoid the kids on scooters on the streets by playing a little “chicken” but always lose the game to the flying child with smirks on their little faces with no fear. Once, a man carrying an oversized orange leather bag, was talking on his cell phone and didn’t notice my son. Diego, who thought he had cleared the height, was unaware of the couple of inches his helmet adds to his height, bounced off his bag and flew off his scooter. I screamed and the man never turned to see if Diego was okay. Hurriedly and scared that my son had broken a bone, I blamed myself for wanting my son to be a true little New Yorker on the smartest wheels invented for city kids. No more stroller up and down subway stairs and no more complaining by Diego, wanting to be carried after a few blocks of walking. It had to be worth it. I was determined to make him a tough, careful and smart little guy on wheels. He brushed himself off got back on and just as my heart rate went down, Diego was distracted by a girl’s pink and shiny wheels that he ended up crashing into a wall. He bounced right up and scooted away without a tear or second thought.
The gang members I used to identify based on the colors they wore and signs they threw up with their hands has now been long forgotten and replaced by watching little boys and girls compare helmet designs and sticker applications on the base of their boards. They race around the smooth path inside Washington Market Park confronting new obstacles and terrorizing young couples strolling by hand in hand. I now identify with screaming mothers and father chasing their kids down west Greenwich smooth sidewalk, catching up with their child before arriving at the corner of Chambers, a busy intersection with school children, gossiping teens and complaining college students, and then scolding their little one on wheels for not listening. How can they? My 3 year old has never moved faster and his young 2 year old neighbor and friend can keep right up with him. I’m world’s away from the childhood I left behind but the anxiety of a parent lives within no matter where you are.