Kids dont get easier, they just get different
- Deb Gallimore
- Jul 29
- 4 min read
Tuesday morning, late July. Payroll day has come round again — a day that never loses its gravitas
with me. Being responsible for someone else's livelihood is a weight I feel very acutely, and that's as it should be. Somehow I've found myself with a team of 12 people to pay (that does include myself and Andrew, but still).
This morning my son Cole is here in the office with me — he's been working for the company over his summer break from college. He's the youngest of four, cheerful and easy-going, and right now he's on hold to an insurance company, because last night he bought a new motorbike, while I'm meant to be running payroll.
Bikes have always been part of this family. Andrew's always had one — it was part of the attraction, if I'm honest — and I have one too, though riding it these days is more infrequent wonderful dream than reality. So the kids have always been comfortable around them.
When Curtis, our eldest, turned 16, he'd saved up his first £1,000 and wanted a bike. Options were slim — mostly cheap Chinese imports that would eat his whole budget and maybe last a year, with parts hard to come by. Then we found an Aprilia 50cc, well looked after, double Curtis's budget. He almost didn't want to go and look — he knew he couldn't afford it. But I had an idea: we'd put in the extra money, and if the bike held up, we'd sell it on to the next Gallimore when the time came, and so on down the line. The look on Curtis's face when he realised it might actually work out is something I won't forget.
So that's what we did. We bought it half-owned with Curtis, then Wade bought Curtis out, then Ruby bought Wade out. That little Aprilia has been our kids' rite of passage — freedom to come and go without needing a lift, from 16 until whenever they graduated to a car or a bigger bike.
There have always been rules. I know plenty of parents who've banned bikes outright, but to me it makes for a genuinely better driver — you grow extra senses, you ride expecting people not to see you, and that hyper-awareness is invaluable training for when driving lessons come round. I always insisted on knowing where they were riding and to — a text on arrival, a text before setting off home. The first big rides — to Nan's, into town — we'd often follow in the car for moral support. There've been a few spills over the years, mostly Wade's, but nothing serious — gravel, low speed, no injuries, thankfully.
Then it was Cole's turn. At 16 he was in no rush to get on the bike at all — which amazed Andrew and the other three. But thinking about it, Cole's never been in a hurry for anything like that. He wouldn't ride a two-wheeler as a toddler until he was good and ready, no amount of encouraging changed that. I think it comes from being the youngest of four — he hates not being able to do something well, so he won't do it publicly until he's confident. Confidence only comes with practice, of course, but practice was the part he wasn't willing to do where anyone could see.
Eventually he rode the pushbike. Eventually he rode the 50cc too. But then he had a spill in driving rain — a day I genuinely wasn't happy about him riding, but I let him go anyway, not wanting to knock the confidence and enthusiasm he'd only just found. It was a slow, gravel-driven drop that did more damage to his confidence than to him — bruised, wet, shaken, but no real harm done. Still, that spill took the wind out of him. The bike went in the garage and he didn't want to look at it for the longest time.
This summer he turned 17. Instead of chasing after a car like a lot of kids his age, he put hours and money into getting the Aprilia sorted — got it back on the road, passed its MOT — only to find another issue that may or may not be fixable. I felt for him, genuinely.
Then last night, facebook marketplace browsing, one thing led to another, and culminated in a trip into town with Andrew and Wade returning home with a Honda Shadow 125cc. He's 17 now, so he can ride it on L-plates — a V-twin, infinitely easier and more forgiving than the little Aprilia ever was. I've never seen him so happy. And that's why he's currently in my office sorting insurance and road tax, while I'm supposed to be running payroll.
These are the precious times, though. One day he won't need my back-up at all — won't even need me part of the process. Kids don't get easier, they get different. The challenges change as they grow, and you have to change and adapt right alongside them. Cole's my youngest, so I'm holding on to these particular challenges for dear life. There have been too many "lasts" in my life recently — and those are only the ones I noticed. I couldn't tell you the last time he reached for my hand, or curled up next to me on the sofa. I was too busy keeping them all alive to notice at the time. But I notice now. And I refuse to wish these moments away.
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