I thought I knew true frustration, the kind that gives you stomach cramps. Then I tried teaching my 7-year-old son to ride a bike.
He's been resistant; he always has been when it comes to doing anything physical. He's an inside kid and would rather make up a game than play it, which is cool, too. I pretend to be interested when he talks about Pokemon and he acts like he cares for 30 seconds when I get excited about Jay Cutler.
But now his near 4-year-old brother is starting to ride in circles around him so I have to push him a little bit to get on the bike. That was yesterday.
It hurt me more than it hurt him. I strained to not be that dad who is red-faced with rage because his kid is too scared of falling to even try peddling. While holding his seat from behind as we rode along, I thought I was encouraging without sounding sharp. I didn't lose it, but on a breezy 72 degree morning I was dripping with sweat trying to keep it together.