Training Wheels

I’m used to having people explain things, small things, to me.

To be totally honest, I need it.

I seldom get whatever’s happening, and, for a large portion of my life, benevolent friends, family and complete strangers, have patiently taken me aside, and, using very, very small words, enlightened me on precisely what was going on.

No one person has come to my cognitive rescue more than the recovering cheerleader to whom I am married.

Over the years, I’ve slowly come to understand that she is quite often the only thing which stands between me and whatever disarray my life would be, were I left to muddle on alone.

She is, for all practical purposes, the training wheels to the bike which is my life, and as such, she’s constantly on guard--protecting me from myself.

“Honey, don’t reach under the mower if the blades are moving.”

“Honey, take your cell phone out of your pocket before you wash your clothes.”

“Honey, don’t teach the kids cuss words.”

“Honey, don’t cut yourself with the chainsaw.”

“Honey, don’t forget to take the pizza out of the box before you bake it.”

Not all of her guidance is verbal, as the passenger side of my SUV silently attests. Huge dents deform the floorboards where her feet have repeatedly sought the elusive, non-existent, passenger-side brake pedal. Small scratches and cracks adorn the windshield and upholstery where she’s silently, frantically, pointed out oncoming/potential/possible/stealthy hazards.

She’s always right there, looking out for me. Over the years, she’s developed the unique ability to offer assistance and guidance in the form of a question.

"Honey, you didn't run over a tank... again...just now, did you?"

“Honey, you didn’t pour gasoline on my roses, again, did you?”

“Honey, you didn’t give all your PIN numbers and passwords to the neighbor kid, again, did you?”

“Honey, you didn’t mow the hose, again, did you?”

“Honey, you didn’t gut that moose in the bathtub...again...did you?”

“Honey, you didn’t send explosives through the mail, again, did you?”

I’m thinking you get the picture. She’s always right there—right there—for me. I look at my friends, and wonder if they have someone checking up on them. I can only hope.

To be perfectly honest, at one time, I began, foolishly, to suspect that perhaps, just perhaps, my sweet wife might harbor the slightest whisper of doubt in my ability to make proper, informed choices.

Any wispy clouds of uncertainty were forever erased from my mind, the afternoon I walked in the house carrying a rifle.

She looked up at me, eyed the rifle and asked… “Honey, you weren’t shooting at Aunt Margie, were you?”

Please excuse me. I have to go rotate my training wheels.