Learning Lessons
“I’m glad that happened,” I said.
“I’m glad that happened.” she mocked.
“Where’re your manners?” I, her superior — the older being asked.
“Did you have something to say?” she challenged.
“I said. Where’re your manners.” Standing my ground. Pretending not to shake in my boots. Regretting that I engaged with this person.
The schoolgirl in the hiked up pinafore and dirty, surely once white shirt, mocked me when my five-year-old son had broken free from the hold of my hand. We’d finished crossing the road and he ran off.
While I walked on the footpath, he took the ramp. Running.
I said, “No running.” Because I knew he would fall and he did. His little legs were prone to tripping. I knew my son.
I said, “I’m glad that happened.” Because I wanted him to learn that I say what I say to prevent harm to come to him. I was not happy he fell. I was trying to teach him a lesson. Until the immature, disrespectful teenager mocked me.
“Where’re your manners?” I asked and she didn’t reply the second time. What was her story? I wondered. Why was she loitering outside the local library instead of at home at five o’clock on a school night? She would benefit from going inside and looking at a book or two, I thought.
Taking advantage of her silence, I scooped up my child and shuffled along as quick as I possibly could — without running.
