Love Is Just Like a Broken Arm
？佚名 / Anonymous
“But what if I break my arm again？” my five-year-old daughter asked， her lower lip trembling. I knelt holding onto her bike and looked her right in the eyes. I knew how much she wanted to learn to ride. How often she felt left out when her friends pedaled by our house. Yet ever since she’d fallen off her bike and broken her arm， she’d been afraid.
“Oh honey，” I said. “I don’t think you’ll break another arm.”
“But I could， couldn’t I？”
“Yes，” I admitted， and found myself struggling for the right thing to say. At times like this， I wished I had a partner to turn to. Someone who might help find the right words to make my little girl’s problems disappear. But after a disastrous marriage and a painful divorce， I’d welcomed the hardships of being a single parent and had been adamant in telling anyone who tried to fix me up that I was terminally single.
“I don’t think I want to ride，” she said and got off her bike.
We walked away and sat down beside a tree.
“Don’t you want to ride with your friends？” I asked.
“Yes，” she admitted.
“And I thought you were hoping to start riding your bike to school next year，” I added.
“I was，” she said， her voice almost a quiver.
“You know， honey，” I said， “Most everything you do come with risks. You could get a broken arm in a car wreck and then be afraid to ever ride in a car again. You could break your arm jumping rope. You could break your arm at gymnastics. Do you want to stop going to gymnastics？”
“No，” she said. And with a determined spirit， she stood up and agreed to try again. I held on to the back of her bike until she found the courage to say， “Let go！”
I spent the rest of the afternoon at the park watching a very brave little girl overcome a fear， and congratulating myself for being a self-sufficient single parent.