Yesterday I was eavesdropping chatting on Twitter and I saw that my friend michaelsownmom was talking about how her little boy waved and shouted a greeting at a woman who was walking down the street, but the woman didn’t respond. And understandably, that bruised his feelings just a little.

I replied to her that my six-year-old does the same thing – if someone is walking down the sidewalk in front or behind the house, he’ll stop what he is doing and holler Hi There! and wave with his hand high in the air, sometimes until they are clear out of sight.  I added that I really have to fight the urge to stifle him, but really, why?

MichaelsDaddy chimed in that he sometimes feels like he needs to protect him from the rejection of those who won’t respond in kind.

I think every parent can relate to that, the overwhelming urge to protect our babies from the hurts and rejections of the world.

If I am to be honest though, I think one reason I want to temper Sean’s enthusiasm in shouting greetings to all who pass is because, for reasons unbeknownst to me, it’s a little embarrassing. We tend to not do that kind of thing much these days and our world is probably a little darker for it.

But like MichaelsDaddy, also known as Tom, I too want to protect my baby from those who won’t acknowledge him or respond in kind.

But the cold reality of life on this planet is that there will always be a steady stream of rejection to be had.  So, from a practical standpoint, why not start practicing now?  Why not get used to rejection from complete strangers so that way when he grows up and is on Twitter and gets notice of 14 unfollowers, it won’t hurt his feelings. As much.

But immeasurably beyond that, to stifle him would be to counter the exact thing I’m trying to teach him – always reach out, always extend kindness to others,  even when it is not acknowledged or returned.

Whatever your feelings are about Martha Stewart, you have to admit she’s a good business woman. She built a media empire and became a zillionaire in the process, although not entirely by playing by the same rules as the rest of us middle-class schmucks, but that’s another story.

So then the other day, I passed through the living room where AD was flipping through the channels and there was Martha on the television speaking to someone in her usual snotty and condescending tone.

It didn’t really catch my attention because Martha always speaks that way, even when she is talking about turnips. But then I heard her trashing Rachael Ray and I just had to stop and find out what crime Rachael had committed against Martha.  Were Rachael’s bed sheets not Egyptian cotton?  Had she used canned green beans in a recipe? No. It turns out that Rachael does not even have a garden!  What kind of low life does not even have a garden?  Show of hands?

Now I’m not Rachael’s PR lady and neither am I her detractor, I’m just saying Rachael is very popular.  Lots of people buy her books and magazines and watch her TV shows. My point is that she is loved by millions and my guess is that most of those people are the same people who buy Martha’s crap stuff.

Then last night as I was dozing off, there was Martha again on my television, this time going off on Sarah Palin.  Martha was dripping with contempt and saying some really ugly things. And again, I’m not here to sing the praises of Sarah or tell you why she is the devil, because everyone seems to have already made up their minds on that.  I’m just saying that millions of people love her.  And wouldn’t you agree that a lot Sarah’s fans are probably K-Mart shoppers? Or Sears shoppers or wherever Martha is hawking her wares these days. Obviously, I don’t keep up with Martha.

For a woman with a head for business, Martha’s lack of  self-restraint mystifies me. I fail to see what benefit it was to Martha to vomit the feelings she has towards Sarah and Rachael all over middle America, thus alienating most of the very people who fill her coffers.  Were those thoughts that simply could not go unexpressed?  Did it endear her to her customer base? No.  I think it made her look really small and sad.

Whatever your feelings are about any of the three women mentioned heretofore, from a purely business standpoint, Martha’s self-indulgent behavior seems to me like a really bad business move and terribly unsavvy.

Martha your lack of restraint surprises me. I thought you were more calculating than that.

Awhile back, I created a little something for someone which I sent off in the mail, a little gift of sorts.  It was a little something that took me, oh, about 20 hours to create.  But whatever.  That is neither here nor there.

Several weeks, maybe even a month has passed, and I have heard nothing, no acknowledgement, nada. It is like I am dead to them.  Although.  How can a dead person spend 30 hours making a lil’ something to drop in the mail?  Can’t.  So naturally, my feelings are devastated shredded whipped bruised an itsy bit hurt given that I spent about 40 hours working on this little creative gifty thing.

So, I’m thinking that is kind of weird. Either they hated it or are offended or both. Or they hate me.  Or all three.  Or!  They don’t appreciate that I spent 50 hours of my life working on this little bit o’ art.

So I tell AD about it and he does this thing that always aggravates me.  He’s logical. And charitable.  And worse? He takes up for the offending party.  “Well they probably never received it,” he said.

It is lonely on my bandwagon. Yes it is. Many seats are available. Form one line please.

Shortly thereafter my cell phone rings but I can’t get to it before it goes to voice mail. Later I check the voice mail and it is someone from a galaxy far far away, in another area code, someone I don’t know.  She has left a long and rambling message for someone who is not me. For five minutes she talks about the new baby and the yarn she has bought and what would I like for her to make for the new baby and on and on.

I considered calling the yarn lady back, but I have a phone phobia.  I do not like to talk on the telephone. I am fearful that I might just blurt out some random thought (a lot like this post) or that I might launch into an unfortunate choice of story and not be able to stop myself. Like this post.

And based on the length of the message, I have to assume she would engage me and there would be talking, a lot of talking, maybe even about yarn which I know nothing about, and I just can’t do it.  I’m just telling you that up front because I know y’all will blast me for not returning the call. But I just can’t. I would email her but that is the one bit of information she didn’t leave.

Anyway.

So when AD came down for lunch, I told him about the yarn lady and the wrong number.

He shook his head and laughed and may have even pointed his finger at me.  “Somewhere,” he said “there is a woman with hurt feelings because someone never acknowledged her.”

So I said the most obvious and logical thing.  “Fine! Fix your own lunch.”

A couple of readers, including my own husband, asked me if teaching Sean good manners was really  the TOP priority in my life.

Yes. Yes it is.

On the whole it would seem there would be other things at the top of that long list like trying to get him to eat vegetables or teaching him how to make coffee, but no, the most important thing I can teach him is to be a well mannered gentleman.

Why?  Because good manners make the world a nicer place.  Because I want Sean to be equally comfortable dining with a prince or a pauper.  Because good manners and the well written thank you note can take you a long way in life.  Because good manners are the mark of good breeding.

Those reasons are all true enough, but not the real reason.

The real reason that I am relentless in my quest to instill good manners in Sean is because it will be the single most important outward display of the faith that I hope he will one day choose to take on as his own.  Good manners are all about showing respect and consideration towards others and putting others first.  And that, more than anything else, will be his greatest testimony.

In my view, good manners are an expression of the core tenant of my faith, which is love thy neighbor.  Paul tells the Galatians that all of God’s law can be summed up in this one command — to love others as oneself.  As they say, love is a verb and that verb must be well mannered or it’s probably not love.

Well mannered people are not rude, self-seeking or easily angered. Scripture says that love is not rude, self-seeking or easily angered. Therefore, love is clothed in good manners.

So then, if you are a Christian and you are not using good and gentle manners and treating others with love and respect, and you are not teaching your children to do so, nothing else you are doing for the kingdom really matters, you are failing your faith. You simply cannot love God without acting loving and kindly towards others.  Paul writes in 1st Corinthians, “If I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.”  Good manners and love for others are inextricably intertwined.  Love for others and love for God are inextricably intertwined.  Good manners can be absent of love, but love cannot be absent of good manners.

Do I always do it? No. I fail daily in some way. Sometimes I fail miserably right here on this blog.  Sometimes I fail my own family.  Other times I fail by omission, by not taking the opportunity to extend kindness or offer a word of encouragement.  And that is a shame because it costs nothing to be kind and respectful, to be well mannered.

So when I say that teaching Sean good manners is at the top of my priority list, it is.  And hopefully, in the process of teaching, the teacher will learn too.

I think I’m a fairly relaxed parent, but I have a zero-tolerance policy for bad manners.  

This may be a bit of an overstatement, maybe not, but I tend to think that at the root of our societal ills is the fact that our society is too casual, too relaxed and good manners are not important any more.  It is my top priority in life to teach Sean to respect others and how to behave properly and so consequently he gets away with nothing in that regard. And honestly, it has been a lot of hard work these past five years to stay on his case with the please and thank you’s and beyond, but I am relentless. 

I think the idea that children should be taught good manners crystallized for me about 15 years ago.  Back in 1994, my friend Patty was expecting her first baby.  As is the custom, I went to Toys R Us to buy her a baby gift.  I was nearly a decade away from becoming a mother at that time, so I knew a lot about how parenting should be done properly. 

After I selected my gift, I stood in line behind a young gal with a little boy who was sitting in the seat of the cart. He was probably three years old.  He had a toy in his hands that obviously had come from the store. 

So I was standing there minding my own business, waiting my turn to check out, when Bubba spit at me. 

I stepped back quickly, dodged the incoming loogie and in my firm voice used primarily for getting the attention of my disobedient dog, I reflexively said, “Hey Buddy! DON’T you spit at me!” 

It was a knee-jerk reaction, but in retrospect, it was inappropriate to direct my comment towards the child.  But 15 years later, I’m still not quite sure what the appropriate response is when spat upon.  Also in retrospect, I can’t quite see myself tapping the mother on the shoulder to inform her little Bubba had just tried to spit on me.  That just has confrontation written all over it and if ever there is a place I want to avoid confrontation it is at Toys R Us and church. There are all kinds of rules about correcting other people’s children and now five years into parenting, I still am not clear on what they are. 

Had there been another check out lane open, I would have probably just moved, but I was stuck. 

And then he spit at me again. 

His mother turns to me at this point and she kind of chuckles and says, “Oh his grandpa chews tobacco and I guess he saw him spittin’…” 

Oddly enough, that bit of information didn’t in any way make me find the scene nearly as amusing as she did, so I raised my eyebrows and looked at her like she was from Mars.  But really I doubt that even the Martians allow their children to spit upon strangers.   And then she turned back to the cashier and proceeded to buy Bubba the toy he had in his grubby little hands.  And I just could not believe it. 

It was at this point that I raised my eyebrows so high I could have tucked them behind my ears.  Now, granted, at that point in my life, I was not fully aware or even slightly aware of how embarrassed one can be by one’s child.  But still. I knew even then that if MY child ever spat upon someone that I would come down on him hard and fast and apologies would be forthcoming and no way on God’s green earth would we be leaving the store WITH A TOY forPetessake! 

And while I have eaten many a heapin’ helpin’ of crow in the last five years years, my stance on spitting children has not changed.  I had all kinds of grandiose ideas about child-rearing that have fallen by the wayside, but if anything, my stance on the importance of manners is more deeply rooted than ever.  You might check back with me in another ten years.  

I’m firm on manners.  All else is subject to change.

One of the problems of being an older parent of an only child — a child that is especially delightful and charming and works the strings of my heart like an angel strumming a harp — is not caving in and spoiling him rotten. It takes a lot of restraint. It takes a lot of that self-control stuff that I’m trying to teach him.

Antique Daddy and I believe that over-indulging the desires of Sean’s heart would be to abuse him. We believe that it is good for Sean to not have everything he wants, to long for something a little bit, to have to save up for something.  I believe these things in theory.  In practice, I could use some practice.

Grandparents do not believe this in theory or practice.

* * * * *

In the past year or so, every time we have gone to Wal-Mart, Sean asks if we can stop and look at the little battery operated cars – Barbie cars, Lightning McQueen cars, Jeeps, John Deere tractors. He stands in front of the wall of tiny vehicles and gazes upon their magnificence. His eyes sparkle with desire. I can see that he is imagining himself tooling around the neighborhood in the little red Lightning McQueen car waving to everyone he sees.

“Mom, can we get one of those little cars?” he asks.

“Well Sean, they’re really expensive. They cost about $300. That’s a lot of money,” I tell him.

“Please Mom, I really want one,” he pleads.

“I know you do. That would be a really big present. I’d have to talk to Daddy about that.”

“Maybe?” he asks, hopefully.

“Maybe someday,” I tell him. “We can’t buy everything we want.”

He doesn’t really understand that.

* * * * *

Recently I got a Tuesday Morning ad in the mail and I noticed that they had a little red Dale Earnhardt battery-powered car for $99. I was sorely tempted to run down to Tuesday Morning and get Sean one because a) it was only $99 and b) I was imagining how his eyes would light up when he saw it.  And I love it when I make his eyes light up, it jump starts my soul.

But I didn’t.

What stopped me was a) I would have to explain to Antique Daddy that I had breached our agreement for $99,  b) the little red car would have to occupy space in our garage that we do not have and c) that whole not over-indulging my child theory I’m supposed to be practicing.

* * * * *

Just before Mother’s Day the phone rang and it was Papa George – Papa George the grandfather who is immune from the rules governing the over-indulgence of children.

“Tell Sean I gotta surprise for him,” Papa George said in his Alabama drawl.

“Oh George,” I sighed. “What have you done?”

Papa George played the Grandpa card, confessed to buying the car, offered no apologies and hung up.

So we went to Tuna to celebrate Mother’s Day, and there it was in the middle of the living room — the little red car of Sean’s dreams. It was half way hidden under a blanket. Like Houdini, Sean pulled the blanket away, clutched his heart and gasped in disbelief.

“I can’t believe my eyes!” he screamed. “I have wanted one of these my entire life!”

Now, even if the story were to end here, y’all would probably be thinking, “That Papa George! What a fantastic grandpa!” And you would be right, but you have no idea.

Papa George is 81-years-old and his spine is crumbling. He has a hard time standing for 10 minutes at a time without white hot pain. It’s hard for him to get around. Yet he got up at 6am, drove to Tuesday Morning and stood in line for two hours to get Sean the little red car. Two hours.

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Papa George doesn’t know how to love small.

With no prodding from his parents, Sean jumped into the recliner with Papa George and gave him a big hug and a kiss and told him how much he liked the car.

I don’t know if that eased Papa George’s back pain any, but I’m sure it was good medicine for his heart. It was for mine.

I’m just hoping a boy can be a little bit spoiled and not be rotten.

This morning:

AM: I love you Sean.

Sean: Oh. Thank you. That’s nice of you to say.

As we were standing in line waiting for the train at the zoo this morning, I looked down to see Sean poking his index finger deeply into the fluffy behind of the grandmotherly lady who was standing in front of us, which was unfortunately, at his eye level and apparently just too much to resist.

My eyes grew as big as saucers.

Just then, she turned to see what was going on. Caught red handed, Sean immediately put his hands behind his back and put on his practiced expression of remorse.

“Sean!” I admonished. “That is not nice. Keep your hands to yourself!”

I was mortified. “I’m so sorry,” I apologized and then I pressed Sean to offer his own apology.

“Sorry,” he said hanging his head. “It just wooked so squishy.”

“You’re just too irresistible!” I teased her hoping to diffuse the situation with humor. Luckily she took it well and laughed.

Then she bent over and cupped Sean’s face in her hands and said, “You my friend, are irresistible.”

You know, I go to considerable effort to teach Sean good manners. He is quick to say please and thank you. But it never once occurred to me that I would have to TELL HIM not to poke little old ladies in the butt.

The other night, some friends had invited us over to their house to go swimming.  Sean was floating around on a little raft with the future Mrs. Sean while Antique Daddy and I stood nearby chatting up the grown ups.  I’m not sure what happened, but somehow he went overboard.

I saw him go in but I waited a split second to see what he would do – if he would try to swim to edge, if he would instinctively flap his way up to the surface and grab the side of the raft, if the expense and grief of swimming lessons had paid off.  Answer: no, no and L no.  He took to the water like a 30-pound bag of flour.  He was heading south.  So I jumped in and grabbed him and swam over to the edge of the pool.

With his arms around my neck, he blinked the water out of his eyes a couple times and very calmly said, “Thank you mommy for saving me.”

He may not be potty trained, but by cracky that boy has good manners. 

He will be the best mannered boy in diapers in kindergarten.  And his mother will be proud.

Manners are a big thing at the House of Antique. I happen to think that good manners and a well written thank you note can take you a long way in life. Consequently, I have made a considerable effort toward teaching Sean the basics and he is pretty good about saying “please” and “thank you”.

Just this morning as I handed him his sippy cup of milk he said, “Thank ya’ Mommy” like a little cowboy and my heart swelled with pride. And then I pulled his tiny index finger out of his nose and he wiped it on my shirt. We are still working on the not wiping boogers on other people part of manners.

So later today, when I heard him in another room rummaging around, I intuitively knew he was up to no good and I called to him to come. No response. “Sean, I need you to come here right now. I need to talk to you.” No response. “Sean if I have to come and get you, you will get a time out. Do you want a time out?”

And that’s when he pops his head around the corner, all smiles and dimples and says, “No thank you Mommy! I’m still playing.”

It’s really hard to give a time out to someone with good manners. Which only proves they really are magic words.