So, in my quest for better health, which, by the way, is an on-again-off-again love affair for me, I just went for a run. If you can call it that . . . . because, I took my unruly dog with me, along with my 4-yr-old son. Of course, my son, Jacob, was riding his bike.
But his bike had a flat tire. Why not just fill the tire? Yeah. I did. But within moments, apparently it was losing air. It would be no biggie, except that the weak tire causes Jacob to have difficulty starting because the back tire spins out. My first thought was, I’ll push to get him started, and then he can just keep going. Wrong again. Try getting a 4-yr-old to keep going. Not possible because there are weeds to check out, paths that need to be taken, and hills that need to be climbed. I thought we lived in a flat neighborhood with no hills. That was until I tried to get the 4-yr-old boy to ride along with a flat tire. That’s when I realized the whole neighborhood is one subtle hill!
So, between stopping and starting, and attempting to keep space between me and the dog, and the dog and the boy who was all over the road, I think I probably got a 12-minute semi-jog in today. Just in time for a Friday evening glass of wine!
The lesson? Not sure there is one here, except to think twice before I try to go for a simple run. Because when you are a mom, not many things are simple. And, certainly, when they are, it’s only because it is an unexpected bonus; not because you had any control at all!
One more thing, as I was running, (ok, doing my circus act around the neighborhood) a few boys were playing in a wooded area. As we ran by, they popped out of the bushes and yelled, “Hey! You’re weird!”
Although I am usually a non-confrontational, peaceful, forgive & forget, it’s all good type of person (at least “I” see myself that way!), something came over me. Maybe it was a much-needed hormonal surge . . . anyway, I turned around . . . I continued to jog in place, not sure why, it’s not like my heart rate was really up . . . and I yelled “Excuse me?”
The boys yelled “You’re weird!” I said, “What did you say?” They yelled again, “You’re weird!” I’m sure they were thinking that I had a major hearing problem by this point. So, I took a deep breath, preparing to talk about how name calling is inappropriate, but they ducked back into the bushes. I guess it was their way of saying “Talk to the Bush!”
So, I turned to resume my vigorous exercise. Then, I heard a door close and saw a man walking out of his garage at the house near the woods. He was on the phone, but I was on a mission to tell somebody that name calling is inappropriate! I gave him the hand signal for “are you on the phone?” You know, the finger in the ear and thumb to mouth, as I jogged in place to keep the heart rate activated. He nodded yes, but said, “What’s up?” He had to be wondering who the heck I was and why was I speaking in sign language to him as I hopped up and down from one foot to another. I said, “Are those your boys over there?” He said, noncommittally, “Probably. Why?” I reported “They called us weirdos as we went by.”
Now, at this moment, I felt like the nerdy tattle-tale kid who can’t take care of herself. Ugh, how do I get out of this looking like an adult?!? I wasn’t quite prepared for what happened next . . . he yelled over to the boys, “Hey, these people aren’t weird; they are nice people!” He chuckled like a jokester, seemingly totally not concerned with his kids’ behavior.
Now, I was speechless, and, trust me, that doesn’t happen often! So, I shrugged my shoulders, said “just thought you’d want to know,” felt like a loser tattler, and turned my jog back in the direction of Jacob. One last chance to make my point: I said, “Jake, name calling is inappropriate. That wasn’t nice of them, was it?” He said, “No mom, come on, let’s go!”
All was not lost. Lesson? I had forgotten what our children go through, more-so, how it feels for them to be called names, etc. When my kids tell me that someone teased them, I do always try to listen and validate their feelings. But half the time, I’m also making dinner, folding clothes, or doing whatever.
Next time they are picked on by someone and they come to tell me their story, I will pay closer attention and remember what it’s like to be called a weirdo – repeatedly.
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