Brian Kantz, Buffalo, NY-based writer and editor

THE NEWBIE DAD - AUGUST 2007

OH, YOU’LL BE POLITE… OR ELSE!

Pulling into a parking spot at Barnes & Noble, I turned around to my two-year-old son and spelled out a simple game plan: “Remember, in and out. In and out.” Don’t panic, we weren’t going to rob the place. I just needed to pick up a book and with the boy in tow, I wanted to accomplish this feat as quickly as possible. Right.

As soon as we walked through the door, my son jumped up and down recalling why this store seemed familiar, “Daddy, they have Thomas!” Yes, Barnes & Noble, filled with row upon row of beautiful new books (which I used to spend hours perusing), also is the home of a well-worn, somewhat grimy Thomas the Tank Engine train table. It’s located in the children’s section in its own little nook, subtly surrounded by eight-foot high walls of Thomas merchandise. Luckily, my son is too young to know that this stuff is for sale.

Instead, he just wants to play with the train set on the train table. And he plays and plays and plays. The minutes go by and there I sit, wondering how long I’ll let him have the time of his little life before I have to drag him away kicking and screaming. That last part is inevitable, of course. He could play with that train for 18 straight hours and still throw a tantrum when I say, “it’s time to go.”

While playing out different scenarios in my mind — should I be the no-nonsense dad and just haul his butt out of there no questions asked or should I bribe him away from the train with the promise of a Tim Horton’s Timbit on the way home? — something curious happens.

Two other boys stride up to the train table. One is accompanied by his mom, dressed in designer clothes and clutching a soy latte, the other by his mom, dressed in Mom Jeans and clutching the memory of a time before kids when her husband used to call her something other than “mommy.” The three junior conductors size each other up with a quick glance and, like the little boys they are and the men they will become, say nothing. Each takes a train and pushes it around the track. Not one of them even attempts to make train noises. No “toot-toot,” no “clickety-clack.”

Finally, my son breaks the silence. He holds up his train and says, “Daddy, who’s the red train?” Thinking this is an honest question and not a quiz, I tell him, “That’s Henry.” Quickly, the little trickster corrects me, “Bzzzt. It’s James.”

Just then, our extensive conversation is interrupted. One of the little boys snatches James right out of my son’s hand. Like a hawk, the offending boy’s mother — in her sharp Talbots suit — swoops in, “He was playing with that. You give it back right now and tell him you’re sorry. We don’t act that way.” The little boy huffs and refuses to issue an apology, clearly spiting his mother, not my son. “Go on, tell him you’re sorry,” mom repeats.

By now, my son, with James back in his possession, doesn’t even remember the second-and-a-half that he didn’t have the train and wouldn’t even know why the other boy was apologizing in the event that he did eventually decide to apologize. The mother was insistent, “Tell him you’re sorry!” Trying to put an end to the whole thing, I eloquently offer, “It’s OK.” Clearly, though, the manners-loving mother was disappointed with her son and she glared a hole into the back of his head.

This suburban voodoo tactic apparently worked as the son suddenly handed the train he was playing with — Diesel, that scheming, devious engine — to the other boy. Fast as lightning, Mom Jeans entered the fray, “Say, ‘thank you.’ Use your words. Say, ‘thank you.’” No words escaped the boy’s mouth. “SAY, ‘THANK YOU!’” his mom demanded a little too loudly. “Thank you,” the boy finally peeped.

Inside, I chuckled. As a stay-at-home dad, I’ve seen this many times before. There’s no denying, moms are militant about manners. And that’s a good thing, I think. Just like forcing a kid to eat his broccoli, staying strict with manners is a necessary part of being a parent. It’s a noble objective. Courteous kids will grow into courteous adults.

I get the impression that some older folks think today’s kids are all bombastic, crude, and mannerless and that today’s parents just don’t care. Heaven forbid the old timers tune into The Nanny, they’ll think we’re all colossal twits. To get a true understanding of what we’re all about — how we raise our kids today — all they need to do is drop in at the Barnes & Noble on a Wednesday morning and sit down next to the train table.


Brian Kantz



		© 2008 Brian Kantz • All rights reserved • Contact Brian

	THE NEWBIE DAD - AUGUST 2007 OH, YOU’LL BE POLITE… OR ELSE! Pulling into a parking spot at Barnes & Noble, I turned around to my two-year-old son and spelled out a simple game plan: “Remember, in and out. In and out.” Don’t panic, we weren’t going to rob the place. I just needed to pick up a book and with the boy in tow, I wanted to accomplish this feat as quickly as possible. Right. As soon as we walked through the door, my son jumped up and down recalling why this store seemed familiar, “Daddy, they have Thomas!” Yes, Barnes & Noble, filled with row upon row of beautiful new books (which I used to spend hours perusing), also is the home of a well-worn, somewhat grimy Thomas the Tank Engine train table. It’s located in the children’s section in its own little nook, subtly surrounded by eight-foot high walls of Thomas merchandise. Luckily, my son is too young to know that this stuff is for sale. Instead, he just wants to play with the train set on the train table. And he plays and plays and plays. The minutes go by and there I sit, wondering how long I’ll let him have the time of his little life before I have to drag him away kicking and screaming. That last part is inevitable, of course. He could play with that train for 18 straight hours and still throw a tantrum when I say, “it’s time to go.” While playing out different scenarios in my mind — should I be the no-nonsense dad and just haul his butt out of there no questions asked or should I bribe him away from the train with the promise of a Tim Horton’s Timbit on the way home? — something curious happens. Two other boys stride up to the train table. One is accompanied by his mom, dressed in designer clothes and clutching a soy latte, the other by his mom, dressed in Mom Jeans and clutching the memory of a time before kids when her husband used to call her something other than “mommy.” The three junior conductors size each other up with a quick glance and, like the little boys they are and the men they will become, say nothing. Each takes a train and pushes it around the track. Not one of them even attempts to make train noises. No “toot-toot,” no “clickety-clack.” Finally, my son breaks the silence. He holds up his train and says, “Daddy, who’s the red train?” Thinking this is an honest question and not a quiz, I tell him, “That’s Henry.” Quickly, the little trickster corrects me, “Bzzzt. It’s James.” Just then, our extensive conversation is interrupted. One of the little boys snatches James right out of my son’s hand. Like a hawk, the offending boy’s mother — in her sharp Talbots suit — swoops in, “He was playing with that. You give it back right now and tell him you’re sorry. We don’t act that way.” The little boy huffs and refuses to issue an apology, clearly spiting his mother, not my son. “Go on, tell him you’re sorry,” mom repeats. By now, my son, with James back in his possession, doesn’t even remember the second-and-a-half that he didn’t have the train and wouldn’t even know why the other boy was apologizing in the event that he did eventually decide to apologize. The mother was insistent, “Tell him you’re sorry!” Trying to put an end to the whole thing, I eloquently offer, “It’s OK.” Clearly, though, the manners-loving mother was disappointed with her son and she glared a hole into the back of his head. This suburban voodoo tactic apparently worked as the son suddenly handed the train he was playing with — Diesel, that scheming, devious engine — to the other boy. Fast as lightning, Mom Jeans entered the fray, “Say, ‘thank you.’ Use your words. Say, ‘thank you.’” No words escaped the boy’s mouth. “SAY, ‘THANK YOU!’” his mom demanded a little too loudly. “Thank you,” the boy finally peeped. Inside, I chuckled. As a stay-at-home dad, I’ve seen this many times before. There’s no denying, moms are militant about manners. And that’s a good thing, I think. Just like forcing a kid to eat his broccoli, staying strict with manners is a necessary part of being a parent. It’s a noble objective. Courteous kids will grow into courteous adults. I get the impression that some older folks think today’s kids are all bombastic, crude, and mannerless and that today’s parents just don’t care. Heaven forbid the old timers tune into The Nanny, they’ll think we’re all colossal twits. To get a true understanding of what we’re all about — how we raise our kids today — all they need to do is drop in at the Barnes & Noble on a Wednesday morning and sit down next to the train table.