I’m not gonna diss you on the internet, Mom and Dad.
The other day I read a blog post by a friend of a friend, and I got so mad I almost wrote a nasty comment.
The friend of a friend wrote about how she had registered for a marathon and told her parents about it, requesting their presence as cheerleaders. Her parents replied that, while they love and support her, they would not be at her marathon, because it was a long trip, they were busy people, and the last marathon of hers they’d attended had involved long, uncomfortable hours of standing and waiting.
In her post, she copied and pasted the text of her dad’s email to her (rude, right?) and whined about how she’d made her request very clear, so if her mom and dad didn’t fulfill it, then they were obviously selfish, unloving people who had no business being parents.
Then, in writing, on the internet, she told her parents—the people who birthed her, raised her, taught her how to walk so that one day she could run her precious little marathon—to f%*# off. (I know!)
I don’t even know the friend of a friend, but her parent-disrespecting post inspired me to do the opposite …
Mom, thank you for birthing me; for raising me; for teaching me how to walk so that I can walk to the farmer’s market, the bus stop, and the corner coffee shop. Thank you for getting me a red (my favorite color) rolling grocery cart like the ones only old ladies use in our hometown—and thanks for refraining (mostly) from laughing at me while I used it in our hometown.
Dad, thank you for raising me; for supporting me always; for teaching me how to ride a bike so that I can bike to work, out to dinner, and to picnics in the park. Thank you for getting me a new pair of cycling shorts, so that I can also do long-distance charity rides—and thanks for doing some long-distance rides with me.
Mom and Dad, thank you both for instilling in me the reverence and respect to know that if I ever (ever!) gave you the finger—cyber or otherwise—I wouldn’t be healthy enough to run in a marathon any time soon.