MANNERS!

Every week at Henry's school they do a different letter, and a few weeks ago it was M week. One of the M words they discussed was Manners.

I learned this during dinner, when Henry asked, "May… I…please have more pasta, please?" He said it like he had just learned to ask for food in Portuguese. It was a distinct change from his usual way of requesting more food, which is to throw his spoon at me and point at his bowl, barking. "So polite!" we exclaimed, and that's when he told us about Manners. Manners is apparently important stuff for peoples to learn, else we become savage-like. Or so he learned us about. It.

"Can you pass the salt?" asked Scott, and Henry raised his spoon and declared, "Manners! You should say may you please pass the salt?"

"Pardon me," said Scott, "Madam, please, would you—"

"MAY YOU."

"May you please pass the salt? Please?"

"I certainly would, sir," I replied, and did so.

"Manners!" Henry cried out in approval.

"Henry, would you like more milk?" I asked him.

"May…I…ask…you—"

"Okay, I don't think that we need to say may I when I'm doing you the—"

"MANNERS!"

"Henry. May I please give you more milk?"

"No, thank you, Mother. You may not give me more milk."

"So 'manners' just means using the word 'may' a lot?"

"Yes. Manners is when you are fancy."

"Okay, are you all done with—"

"MANNERS."

We tried to explain how we use manners all the time, without saying "May I" in every sentence, and how maybe using manners doesn't involve bullying your family, but he wasn't having it.

The next week was N, during which we learned about Napkins and how one is supposed to use them with one's meal. Wha? We explained to him that we already have things to wipe our chins on, and we call them our Shirts. I suppose he'll learn that at S week.

Lock up your daughters

Yesterday was School Picture Day, and Henry looked, if he did say so himself, particularly dashing. On the walk home from school we walked part of the way with a girl from his class. While Charlie peed on every un-peed-upon leaf, I heard her saying to him, "You are handsome in that yellow shirt, Henry. You look so handsome today." Henry nodded and gave her a half-smile as he walked and she skipped in circles around him. Her mom said to me, "She talks about Henry all the time." "That's so sweet," I said, and struggled to remember if he had ever mentioned her before.

As we parted ways, the girl cried out one last time, "You look really handsome, Henry!" He didn't even glance at her as we crossed the street. "Aren't you going to say goodbye?" I asked him. He thought for a second, then turned around and shouted, "You looked really beautiful today!"

A moment later I looked back, and she was still standing there, beaming and waving as he walked away.

Six is easier, right? Don't tell me it's not.

Dear Five and a few months:

I love you, but you're too much. Can you tone it down a little?

Curious,

Your Mother

---

Dear Mom,

I can smell it down a little. In my butt. I can butt it down a buttle.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha! Buttle! Butt smell! My butt smells, get it? Like there's a nose on it? Get it? Did you hear that?

Nose butt. Butt nose. Fart fart nose butt smell stink.

Love,

Five and a few months

---

Dear Five and a few months,

I think you lost track of my original request. If you'll recall, I asked you to tone it—

---

Hey Mom! Hey!

TRANSFORMERS! TRAAAANS-FORM-ERRRRRS! Pshhhew pshhhew phssshew! Why don't transformers have butts? Butts that smell? Ha ha ha transformer butts. Know what? I have a new Transformer that I just now made up, and you know what? Do you know what? Know what? His name is Butt-tron! No, wait, FARTRONIC.

Ha ha ha haahaaaaaaaaaaaiiiighhhhaaaahahahaha—

Love,

Five and a few months

----

Dear Five, etc.:

I don't know how you managed to interrupt me while I was writing a letter, but it appears you have the power to do so. You have many powers. Including the power to drive me up a wall. And yet you can be so charming! Truly, you are an enigma.

Cautiously,

Your mother

---

Dear mom:

So you love me, but sometimes I make you annoyed? That's complicated.

Love,

Five and a few months.

---

Dear Five-ish:

See? Like that! All of a sudden you're all thoughtful and calm, like that! Okay! Now maybe we can talk about—

---

Hey Mom!

Remember that time we went to the pool with the sprinkler ? And that boy was there? Remember that boy? That boy whose shorts were blue, he kind of looked like Tyler, in my class, who I like but I'm not friends with or, like, not best friends , because he plays Power Rangers and I don't play Power Rangers, I only play Star Wars at school with my other friends, well, sometimes Tyler plays Star Wars but still he's not really my friend, and you know what? The, uh, the boy, not Tyler but the, uh, the other boy, the boy from the uh, the pool, remember that pool? Well he told me he had this kind of… toy, I can't remember what it's … called, but I think it's like Legos, but not really the same…I don't know. So he has it at his house and could we go there, maybe?

Could we go there now? I think we should go there now.

Five and a few months.

---

Dear son:

We cannot go there now, because I am going to bed. Wake me when Six shows up.

Love,

Mom

Slow learner

It took me two years, but I finally realized that I can't ask Henry about his school day. Such questions are met with mute rage and the eventual declaration that HE WILL NEVER TELL ME. Henry once barked at me, "Don't ask me about my business." (Apparently he's been watching the Godfather.) He will not tolerate questions about what toys he played with, how much fun he had, who administered a wedgie to whom, etc. The fact that I was expressly told that I could not know what had occurred at school rendered me even more desperate for information. Once I actually used the argument that I deserved to know about school because I paid for it. As if that makes an ounce of difference to a preschooler, who considers it my unique privilege to wipe his butt.

So after too many days and weeks and months of asking, I took the hint and shut up. And of course he started spilling his guts. Usually this happens well after we've arrived home, after the snack, after he's had some time to decompress, watch a little television, quietly rearrange some Legos. The inside scoop is just as boring as you'd imagine, but I love hearing it. The controversies over blocks! Who ate what for lunch! I can't get enough. I'm still amazed that my son does stuff when I'm not around, talks to people and engages in activities and pees in the correct receptacles. It's like he's a person.

Now that I've learned my lesson, when I pick him up, the only thing I say is, "I'm so happy to see you." He takes my hand, and we walk home together in silence. Then at some point during our walk he'll say, "I'm so happy to see you, too." It takes every ounce of strength not to consider that an invitation to barrage him with questions. It's also difficult not lunge at him and gnaw on his sweet head, which I'm pretty sure is made of marzipan. Fortunately I have developed some self-control, in my advancing years.