“Mom, can you get me a skateboard? I want to learn how.”
Hm.. I open facebook marketplace and search for skateboards.
$100.
$150.
I widen geographical areas.
$45
$15.
Fifteen? Sweet. I message the seller. I come home with this after my work day in the city.

Immediately, the kiddo wants to hop on it.
“HELMET! Kneepads! Wrist guards!” I yell.
I concussed myself once upon a time on a skateboard. I was at my friend’s Bryan’s house. We were in the back laneway. I was probably five. I stepped on the board and it went out from under me. I remember how much it hurt, how solid the asphalt felt under my back and head, how I went inside to lie down because I didn’t feel like playing outside anymore.
I am determined her experience will not be like mine.
I take her hand, and after a quick google search of “how to learn to skateboard”, I show her foot positions, and have her focus on how it feels to move standing on it, how it leans. Our street seems rough and bumpy.
Avril Lavigne’s Sk8ter Boi plays on repeat in my head.
“Let’s go to the skate park. It’ll be smoother there.”
We head over.
There are many, many Peter Pans there. In this town of Peter Pans, there are a disproportionate number who hang out at the skate park. The rest of them are at the dirt jumps and bike park. I might only know this because they comprise a portion of my social circle.
She surveys the scene.
I know how it feels to be a beginner in a world outside your comfort zone.
“No one is watching you, okay? Just focus on your own practice.” I tell her.
“And you can watch them, see what the ones who are really good are doing. Watch how they push, where they put their feet, how they lean.”
We find a flat-ish portion of smooth asphalt near the shallowest bowls. There are boys on dirt jumpers practicing 180s, footplants on the walls, little jumps over the concrete dividers. There are a few girls there, skating on the ramps. She watches an older man drop into the bowl, finding his flow, arcing up, down, around and again. It is fluid. Peaceful.
“That, kiddo, when you get better at this, is called flow. It will feel really good. But to get there, be prepared to fall, and be prepared for it to hurt. Falling on concrete hurts. But that’s why you’re wearing your pads. They’re different from bike pads, because you’re meant to slide. So don’t be afraid to slide, okay?”
I have these pads from when I tried roller derby. After finishing the beginner skills, the next level up required me to sign an insurance waiver and purchase a mouthguard. It was then that I decided I would abandon ship. My pads are big on her, but they’ll do.
We go from me holding her hands while she rolls along, to me holding one hand. I can see her confidence growing. Longer stretches of rolling. She steps off to push, and manages to get both feet back on for another long, rolling stretch. I am now standing off to the side, watching her do it all on her own. She even lets me take a little video of her.
“I’m hungry now.” We’ve been at it about three quarters of an hour. We go get a burrito.
“I really like the board mom. He’s a pretty cool giraffe.”
Yeah, he is.
“My friend said she had one with a giraffe licking a chocolate ice cream and it broke, so I’m glad it’s not the same board because this one has 3 flavours in his ice cream.”
Spumoni. Yes.
“I really want to get good at this. So I’ll be cool in high school.”
My right eyebrow raises.
She grins at me.
I harken back to high school. The skaters were the potheads in my high school. “Ne’er-do-wells” who always got suspended for smoking on school property. They weren’t really cool. Just tried to be.
One of them ended up in my medical school class. He was the dark horse. Wicked smart. But even in medical school, after we became friends and hung out together, he still talked like a stoner. I was always a bit jealous of him, how anxiety wasn’t a thing for him. I have a vague memory of a late night running up and down a hallway with him and a few others, drunk, yelling that we were in the hallowed halls of Banting and Best’s stomping grounds. Medical school was a blur of alcohol and stress and life epiphanies. But I digress.
“Kiddo. Do this because it’s fun. Because it’s something you can do almost anywhere. Because it’s a challenge. Because it makes you feel good. Don’t do this to be cool. Because like anything, it’s going to be hard for a while, before it gets easier, and it won’t be worth it if you’re only doing it to be cool.”
But she is going to be cool. I can already tell. She’s already cooler than I ever was. Maybe she’ll be even cooler because she’ll be able to skateboard.
I’m suddenly panicky over the boyfriends she’ll have one day. I saw two cases today of abused women. On our way home, I give her a lecture on how to pick good ones:
Watch how they treat their moms, their sisters. Watch how they treat servers at restaurants and people who have no money. Watch how they handle being disrespected, how they handle stress. Learn about their families. Watch how their families argue. WATCH, and pay attention. Just like when you’re learning to skateboard. Pick someone kind and generous and patient. Pick someone like daddy. This means you need to be kind and generous and patient too.
She looks at me earnestly. I am going off. Crazy mama bear. She will remember me like this, but I don’t care, as long as some of it, any of it, sticks before she starts her tweenage rebellion.