I love my Saturday morning runs. I live for them. I run long on those days, anywhere from 7 to 10 miles. I'd love to get up to 12 miles, but lately, I just haven't had the time.
This Saturday was no exception, for the most part. The weather was nice, and there was no rain. My legs felt fine, as did my lungs. To be honest, I couldn't ask for anything more.
I don't carry water with me, so I tend to stop at outdoor water fountains. About halfway through my run, I stopped for a drink of water at the parking lot of a local church. Kids and parents were starting to gather for the morning soccer games. As I stepped back from the water fountain to continue the run, I overheard a mother say to one of her kids, "Hurry up, you butthole!"
I don't run with contacts, so I couldn't see how old the child was, but the kids on the field were pretty small. I was flabbergasted. I did a double check to see if the lady was speaking to a child. Indeed, she was. And even without contacts, I could see the scowl on her face. I ran on, debating whether or not to say something, and in the end, I chose not to. Perhaps I should have. Next time, I probably will.
Why did the comment bother me so much? It made me sad for a variety of reasons. The child thinks he/she is the equivalent of an ass, first of all. That child might plod forth in life, believing what the mother says. If she routinely makes comments like the one she did Saturday, that kid is in for a life of degradation. When I think about that now, I kick myself for not stopping.
Furthermore, the mother thinks it is okay to call someone butthole. It is not okay to call your kids names. It is not okay to call anyone a nasty name. This might differ if both parties know you are kidding. But it was clear in this instance that kidding was not happening, and there wasn't an apology. I should know; I hung around long enough for one.
Had I stopped, the woman would have told me to mind my own business. Of that I am certain. And maybe it isn't my place to tell someone how to parent. But sometimes, I expect more from people. Perhaps people need to start expecting more from themselves.
This Saturday was no exception, for the most part. The weather was nice, and there was no rain. My legs felt fine, as did my lungs. To be honest, I couldn't ask for anything more.
I don't carry water with me, so I tend to stop at outdoor water fountains. About halfway through my run, I stopped for a drink of water at the parking lot of a local church. Kids and parents were starting to gather for the morning soccer games. As I stepped back from the water fountain to continue the run, I overheard a mother say to one of her kids, "Hurry up, you butthole!"
I don't run with contacts, so I couldn't see how old the child was, but the kids on the field were pretty small. I was flabbergasted. I did a double check to see if the lady was speaking to a child. Indeed, she was. And even without contacts, I could see the scowl on her face. I ran on, debating whether or not to say something, and in the end, I chose not to. Perhaps I should have. Next time, I probably will.
Why did the comment bother me so much? It made me sad for a variety of reasons. The child thinks he/she is the equivalent of an ass, first of all. That child might plod forth in life, believing what the mother says. If she routinely makes comments like the one she did Saturday, that kid is in for a life of degradation. When I think about that now, I kick myself for not stopping.
Furthermore, the mother thinks it is okay to call someone butthole. It is not okay to call your kids names. It is not okay to call anyone a nasty name. This might differ if both parties know you are kidding. But it was clear in this instance that kidding was not happening, and there wasn't an apology. I should know; I hung around long enough for one.
Had I stopped, the woman would have told me to mind my own business. Of that I am certain. And maybe it isn't my place to tell someone how to parent. But sometimes, I expect more from people. Perhaps people need to start expecting more from themselves.
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