The race was about to start, and I was standing nervously by the sidelines, watching my little 2-year-old daughter perched on her tiny orange Strider bike. I had imagined this moment—her racing down the course with the determination of a professional athlete, leaving the other kids behind. But as she sat there, wearing a helmet too big for her head and a tutu I had insisted on, I began to have my doubts.

“Ready, sweetie?” I asked, adjusting her helmet for the hundredth time, hoping that maybe this time it would fit.

She looked up at me, her face filled with pure joy. “Biking!” she yelled, as if the concept of a bike race was the greatest thing she had ever heard of.

I was standing behind her as she sat on her bike waiting for the announcer to give the signal to go. There must have been 20 kids standing shoulder-to-shoulder, waiting to be released. Then the announcer states “Okay, on your mark... Get set... Go!”

And... nothing. She didn’t move.

I stood there, hand over my eyes like I was shielding myself from the sun, hoping she’d catch on. But nope. My daughter was sitting there, straddling her bike, completely absorbed in watching the other kids take off. I could see the others already halfway down the track while she was still trying to figure out what was going on.

Then, with the slightest nudge, she finally started moving—slowly. And I do mean slowly. Like, turtle-with-a-cane slow. The other kids were already across the finish line by the time she dropped the first roller. But she was grinning like she’d just won the lottery.

I cheered her on, clapping my hands. “Go, go, sweetie! Pedal faster!”

She looked up, momentarily confused, as if she’d just realized there was even a race happening. “I”m biking!” she shouted again, like she’d made some amazing discovery.

Meanwhile, every other kid had finished the race. But she was having the time of her life, waving at anyone who would look.

Finally, she finished — dead last. As in, the very last one to cross the finish line, after what seemed like an eternity. But when she did, she didn’t look disappointed. Instead she looked like she had just been given a gold medal. She triumphantly rode her bike across the line, then threw her hands in the air as though she had just completed the world’s greatest achievement.

“Again!” she shouted, having no concept that she was in a race-albeit a friendly children's race.

It was at this moment that I realized she doesn’t have a competitive bone in her body. Not only that, she is a look before she leaps kind of kid. Which is fine with me.

As we walked off the track together, she happily rode her bike next to me, calling out to every person we passed, “I’m biking!” as if to say, “Isn’t this just the best thing ever?”

It are these small moments that mean so much to me. I never want to be that parent that tries to make everything competitive. I want to be the parent that supports my children in all their endeavors, and so long as they try I will be happy. However, I am still an 80’s child and there will be no participation trophies in our home.

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