THAT FIRST CRASH: "Your son had quite a wreck."

My wife comes in from the park with C.J. trailing behind her, clinging to a leg. He looks more sad than hurt, like a toy whose batteries are nearly spent. His face is still red and puffy from tears, but he's not crying anymore.

"What happened?"

"He was running as fast as he could, pushing that big plastic car. He was headed right for the teeter-totter, but I figured he'd steer around it. He hit it head on."

"Oh, man. Then what?"

"He flipped over the car. When he hit the teeter-totter the car kind of stopped and hit him in the stomach, and his momentum carried him right over it. He was very sad. It looked like it hurt."

C.J. doesn't know what we're saying yet -- oh, maybe he picks up a few words here and there, like "car" and "park" -- but he knows we're telling a sad story, and he knows it's about him. He wades into the space between us and waits for someone to scoop him up.

I scoop him up.

And I think back to when I was riding my bike to school one morning. I must have been seven or eight years old, and it was one of the first times I was allowed to ride there on my own. Actually, I think I was part of a group that included older boys, but all I remember is the sense of freedom. We got down to the street next to the school, and I started pedaling as fast as I could. I stared down at the road rushing past, and I felt powerful and free and alive. Then I felt my bike stop, felt my belly smack into the handle bars, felt my fingers get pinched and my shoulders flipping over and then it was fuzzy and quiet until I rolled off the car I'd hit and down onto the road below. I tried to yell, but I couldn't. I'd had the wind knocked out of me. I was scared. I flailed my arms and flopped my head from side to side for what seemed an eternity before I finally found some air again.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!"

I was hurt, scared, confused, and just generally miserable.

"You broke the light!" someone screamed at me.

Gathering myself, too young to know to check for protruding bones and blood and guts, I saw that it was true. I'd smashed the tailight on the car. My bike was mangled. And somehow I was standing up and rolling my bike toward the school.

"Let's get out of here," someone said.

And that's what I wanted to do: Get out of there. I wanted to get out of a world that let little boys smash their bikes into cars when all they wanted to do was have fun and feel free and strong and alive. I still remember that feeling, the whump of the car, then the misery of the aftermath.

Later that day I confided what had happened to a teacher, and we walked back and left a note on the car. The people were very nice. They called my parents, said they understood it was an accident, and they hoped I was alright. I was treated more as a hero than a villain, since I'd somehow stunt-manned my way through the accident alive, and since I'd gone back and taken "responsibility," which seemed to be the word everyone wanted to repeat a thousand times. I took the people who owned the car some money -- something like five bucks from my piggy bank. My parents sat in the car, and I had to go up to their door and give them the money. I'm pretty sure I cried when I gave it to them. I was scared, plus I already knew I didn't like to give away money.

I remember that incident as the end of my innocence. I learned you had to pay attention, otherwise Life could hurt you, could take things away.

I think my son forgot about his wreck over the course of his nap. But sooner or later there'll be an episode that will stay with him. I only hope his episode is as innocuous as the one that I'm remembering today.