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I want a skateboard.

I gave one to my son for Christmas and today we trekked to the local skatepark. It was empty- more experienced boarders likely knowing that wet pavement and storm debris make for undesirable conditions. But, for our purposes, it was perfection.

Tentative pushes soon became more confident. Slaloms off the wall began to feel less impossible. Even arcing in a graceful circumference was graspable.

I "took film" attempting to capture what I could should anything appear YouTube-worthy to the rider. We even chose a Pandora station to set the vibe.

It's been ages since I felt as important to my tween. Every success warranted a glance to confirm his growth. How can he skate and look over his shoulder to see if I am watching without falling? And how could I look away lest that be the moment the board cry mutiny, toss him off, and gravity and concrete do a number on this basketball player's bones. Sure, he dutifully wore both helmet and wrist guards, but a mother's watch is, I like to believe, superior insurance.

Though it has been thirty years since I've tried my luck on such a contraption, I ladled out plentiful direction. "Bend the knees!" "Try going low." "Lean!!!"

And, now I want one. My body aches to feel that flow, the glide, the connection. It's not so bad to be a 40-year old skater, is it?