"Apologize. Now."

I like running Clubhouse.

Sure, it's boring. You're sitting on this stool (well, it's kinda like a flat seat-thing...) for hours on end, getting up only to let kids in the gate and stamp their hands. Occasionally, you may have to climb up into the playhouse to rescue some kid who's scared of the tilting tunnel or the EXTREMELY DARK slide. I keep a flashlight in my purse for this purpose. (I do it gladly, because I used to be the kid that was scared of things; plus, I like going down the slide.)

But on the other hand, if you bring a book or a sketchpad or something to do, time goes by rather quickly. I don't read while there are kids in my gate, but otherwise, I will. I've finished books there before, and it's always a pleasant time.

During downtimes, if a kid wants me to go up with them, I'll do it. I went up with this one curly-haired four-year-old maybe six or seven times last Saturday, because not only was he scared of the tunnel and the slide, but he also wanted someone to play with.

So, last Saturday, I was manning Clubhouse. There are one or two kids in the Clubhouse, and a set of grandparents are sitting outside the gate on the same stool-seat things, watching their grandkids play. 

Out of nowhere, this group of little boys comes tearing up to the gate. One of them swings wide and pretty much trips over the grandfather (the grandfather was sitting upright, legs crossed. There's no way the kid could've tripped unless he ran into the man, which he did). He then marches up to the gate and demands to be let in.

Something inside of me snaps.

I swipe their cards, stamp their hands, and then I put my foot on the inside of the gate (so they can't open it with their grubby little kid-hands), and I glare at the one little kid who fell over the old man. 

"Apologize."

He throws a barked, "Sorry," over his shoulder, and proceeds to attempt to walk in the gate again. I'm not having any of it.

"Apologize to the gentleman you just so brutishly ran over, or I'm not letting you in."

The boys' mothers have caught up by this time, and one of them notices that I'm picking on her son.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm not going to let him in unless he apologizes for running into the gentleman sitting behind him."

I'm half-expecting the mother to go off on a tangent and bite my head off. Hey, I was raised to respect my elders, and I hate seeing little kids treat older people like trash.

Much to my surprise, the mother turns on her son, gives him this look of evil and terror, and says, "Apologize!"

So the little boy slinks over to the man, squeaks out an, "I'm sorry I ran into you," and then flees back to the gate. I let him in with no trouble, the mother nods and leaves with her posse, and the old man smiles at me.

All in all, I think I taught that kid some respect. Or I put fear and terror into him. It's sort of hard to distinguish the two sometimes.