I clearly remember my dad teaching me to ride a bike. We lived in Alexandria, VA, at the time and had a very large, and—on Saturday—very empty parking lot just a few miles away from our house.

I learned to ride a bike in the Pentagon parking lot.

Pretty memorable, huh? What I don't remember, though, was learning to pedal. I was much younger—three or four at the most—and I learned on the far less memorable  sidewalk in front of our house in Virginia Beach.

Anna is learning to pedal. We bought her a bike two years ago because her legs were already too long for a tricycle. The first summer, I pushed her, the second summer, I pushed her some more. I tried to encourage her to pedal. Other kids her age were pedaling, but she just wasn't getting it. OK, I thought, next summer she's going to learn to pedal.

That was my goal, and I took her to our neighboorhood park yesterday to teach her. Now, as I said before, I don't remember how I learned to pedal so I had no idea where to start. First, I set her on the bike. She rocked back and forth, but didn't go anywhere. Then I tried pushing her. I figured if I got her feet moving she might take over and pedal on her own.

I pushed her all the way around the park, letting go every few steps to see if she'd pick up the pedaling. Each time, she slowed to a stop.

I tried verbal encouragement. "Push this leg." I pointed to her left leg.

"I can't!"

I repeated what my mom always told me. "Don't say you can't, just try."

She rocked a bit more. "I can't."

This was getting nowhere, so I decided on a new approach: bribery.

I pointed to a line on the path. "If you can pedal this far, we'll get you a prize when we get home." We had a box of little prizes set aside for rewards.

She pushed, she rocked, and she pedaled, all the way to the line and she kept going. She finally had it.

"That's great, Anna." Now she had started, and I wanted her to keep going. "OK, if you can pedal all the way to the playground, Mommy and I will take you to Toys 'R' Us."

She kept going, ten feet, twenty feet, almost there.

Then she stopped. Her wheels got stuck.

By this point one of her friends from the neighborhood saw Anna on her bike.

"I have a bike," Marta said as she ran over to us.

"Anna's just learning to pedal," I said.

Marta put her hand on Anna's shoulder. "You can do it, Anna."

"I can't," Anna cried. "I'm stuck."

She was so close. I didn't want her to get discouraged now or she might give up.

"Let's move the bike over to the basketball court." I helped Anna off the bike and picked it up. We walked over to the edge of the court, I set the bike down, and she got back on

"Just pedal to that line." I pointed to a line on the court. "And we'll go to Toys 'R' Us."

She pedaled to the line and past it, all the way across the court.

"Yay Anna!" Marta shouted.

I smiled. I'd just taught my daughter to pedal her bike.

Every child at some time or another gets an imaginary friend. Given that Anna isn't in school yet and only has a few friends she knows—as opposed to her many "friends I don't know"—I expected she might have one by now.

Not yet, but as of last week she has an imaginary pet. Her name is Betty, and she's a poogle (half poodle, half beagle). I guess it makes sense. Anna loves dogs, but a dog wouldn't mix well with either our two bunnies or my mother-in-laws two cats. So Anna made up a dog.

Don't tell her that, though. Yesterday,  I made the mistake of calling her dog invisible.

"She is not invisible!" Anna replied.

I quickly corrected my error. "I meant she's invisible to everyone else. Of course, you can see her."

That seemed OK, but I hate to think how she would have reacted if I'd said "imaginary" instead.

Anyway, like most imaginary pets, Betty has some distinct advantages over a real pet. She's easy to take care of—she's housebroken and since both her pee and poop are invisible, it's easy to clean up after her. Anna has an unlimited supply of imaginary dog food, dog treats, and dog toys, and though she hasn't mentioned it yet, I'm sure Betty  gets plenty of imaginary water as well.

The biggest advantage, though, is that Betty can go with Anna everywhere. This weekend, Anna played on several inflatables, including a bounce house, a "Rat Race" obstacle course, and a slide in the shape of a sinking ocean liner. Betty got to go on every one. Last night, Anna brought Betty to see the fireworks at PK Park and she didn't get scared at all. Today, Anna brought her to the mall, where only assistance dogs and imaginary dogs are allowed. Betty played with Anna until some other kids showed up, then she sat quietly, waiting until Anna was done. Imaginary dogs are very well-behaved.

Imaginary dogs seem to grow up faster. On Saturday, Betty was a little puppy, but by yesterday she was "all grown up" and "medium sized." I'm not sure if she'll get any bigger, or smaller for that matter. She may even turn back into a puppy, or change breeds. Since I only had real dogs growing up, I'm not sure what imaginary ones can do.

Maybe by next week she'll learn to fly.

I took Anna to a new park yesterday. It was a big park with lots of room to run and play, but the playground was a bit disappointing: small, with only a couple of slides and next to no shade. Instead of the usual wood chips, the area around the play structure was filled with sand. Granted, sand is soft, but it also gets hot in direct sunlight.

As we walked up to the play area, Anna sat down to take off her sandals.

"The sand might get hot," I said. "You'd better leave those on."

"I don't want sand in my shoes."

"Ok, but your feet might get hot."

She pulled off her sandals and stepped into the sand.

"They're not hot."

"OK." I picked up her sandals. "I'll hold these in case you need them."

She played for about two minutes, then suddenly she started crying and ran over to me.

"You were right daddy. My feet are hot."

I picked her up and brushed off her feet. They were just a little bit red—not too bad. I helped her put her sandals back on.

"Do you want to go play some more?"

"No, I want to go home."

I felt awful. Her playtime was ruined. Later that day, though, it dawned on me: That was the first time I ever heard Anna say "You were right, Daddy."

Anna's at that age where she disagrees with everything I say. For example, many times when we come home from playing, Anna will dawdle a bit at the bottom of the stairs. "Anna," I'll say. "We need to go upstairs."

"No, we need to go downstairs."

"Anna our apartment is upstairs. We need to go up." You'd think by now I'd know not to try logic with a four year old.

"Our apartment is downstairs."

"No, Grandma's apartment is downstairs. We need to go upstairs." At this point, I think I've bested her, but no . . .

"I want to go to Grandma's." Game, set, and match to Anna.

It's only going to get worse. Soon enough she'll be a teenager, and she'll never agree with me. So I need to savor these words while I can:

"You were right, Daddy."

I've noticed a trend lately. Whenever I take Anna out to play, to the park or the mall or wherever, one or more boys will inevitably gravitate to her.

The first time I really noticed this was about a month ago. We were at a mall play area, just us and a lady with three kids—two boys and a girl. The older boy was about five and the younger boy was three and both were fascinated with Anna. The older boy borrowed his mom's camera—a simple point and shoot digital—and took several pictures of Anna. The younger boy kept tickling her. Before long I realized that both the boys had little crushes on her.

It was really cute and it has happened several more times since then, most recently today.

We walked over to the park this afternoon. It was the first sunny day in a month and we wanted to enjoy it. We brought along a giant Chuck-E-Cheese ball which got all the kids attention right away. One boy in particular, about six years old, was fascinated with it and we threw and kicked the ball around for awhile. I figured he was just wanting the ball, but once we were done playing with it, he asked Anna to play Hide and Seek. There were several other kids in the park yet he played with Anna almost the whole time we were there. Once again, I think he had a little crush on her.

Should I be surprised? She is totally adorable, after all. I just thought I'd have a little more time before I'd have to start screening potential boyfriends.

My wife Julia started a fun little game with Anna about a year and a half ago. Anna had just figured out how to pout to try and get her way, so one day she was pouting and Julia started tapping her index finger and thumb together like a bird's beak.

"Tweet, tweet, tweet . . . plppbt!"

"Wa Dat?" Anna asked.

"That's a bird coming to poop on your lip," Julia replied.

Soon Anna caught on. One of us would pout—as a joke—and she'd tap her index finger and thumb together.

"Teet, teet, teet . . . plppbt!"

"What was that?" one of us would ask.

"Da a boid dunna poop on ya lip!" she'd reply with a big grin.

One day I noticed that Anna had her lip sticking way out, so I decided to take it to the next level:

"Squawk, squawk, squawk!" I said, flapping my arms.

Anna pulled her lip back in and covered her mouth.

"I think I hear a condor!" Julia said.

Soon Anna picked up on the condor too, and the first time I saw her flap her arms and squawk I practically fell over laughing.

So why do I bring this up today? Well, after last night's Mid-Valley Willamette Writers meeting, I finally gave in and signed up for a Twitter account. I put it off as long as I could, but if I'm going to pursue this writing thing as a career and not just a hobby I've got to network, and the place to network is Twitter.

So after a year of resistance I've started tweeting. I just hope that my first impression of Twitter wasn't accurate:

"Tweet, tweet, tweet . . . plppbt!"