Spent the morning putting together a bike. Actually found the hex wrenches in the garage! How was that possible? Finally have the brakes adjusted, the seat at the correct height, and the little flashy ringer bell on the handlebars.
Son hops on bike, pedals a large circle around the backyard, drops the bike at the back door and lopes inside for lunch.
I'm looking out at a bike box, little scraps of torn cardboard, scattered tools, and a pristine shiny candy-blue Schwinn. I'm proud of myself for having assembled it, but at the same time I wonder if I just wasted a morning which could have otherwise been spent reading the paper figuring out the details of the caliper brakes for a bike my son may never use.
I guess this means I'm going to have to, ugh, invite him on those "Let's exercise as a family!" outings I so despised as a kid. "Hey son," I'll loudly exclaim. "I'm heading out for a refreshing ride around the block on my bike. Wanna come along?"