Frankie, Molly and I were enjoying the sunshine yesterday afternoon when we heard the voices of our neighbor, Evan, and the little boy down the street, Cole. I've never seen anyone move so fast. Frankie jumped off her swing and ran to the front yard as quick as a cat can wink her eye. She saw them both riding their bikes on the driveway but I could tell she was nervous to approach them. She stood there for a while, waiting for them to notice her, until she worked up the nerve to say hello. Now, I will give them credit, because they are six and seven-years-old but they are usually pretty nice to her. It doesn't make it less painful to watch your three-year-old try to interact with them, though. She's always a dollar short. Since they were riding their bikes, she immediately wanted hers, too. But while they rode no-handed and tore up and down the road like maniacs, she was busy staying confined to the driveway, training wheels clackety-clacking along, yelling "Look what I can do, guys! Guys! Look what I can do! Isn't that so cool? Guys? Guys?"
Sure enough, soon they tired of riding with her and took off down the road to Cole's house. Frankie stared longingly after them for a few minutes and then got off her bike, unclipped her helmet and began softly, plaintively calling "Evan? Evan? Evaaaaan....." and burst into tears. And then my heart rolled out of my chest and splattered on the sidewalk.