In the fourteenth century, an erudite gentleman by the name of William of Wykeham, coined the proverb ‘Manners maketh man’. Impressed? I always knew that O Level history would come in handy.
Anyway, the truth of the saying does disturb me somewhat because, if manners are an intrinsic component of maturity, then I’m in danger of raising the Low equivalent of an episode of Men Behaving Badly.
When my boys grow up, I want them to be big, suave devils that could charm the pants off anyone. Not literally, of course. My precious angels won’t be allowed to have sex until they’re at least twenty-five, and only then with my express permission and after the potential suitor has been vetted by me for pure motivations and foolproof contraception.
Since the fundamental basis for charm and social skills is good manners, husband and I are already endeavouring to educate the boys in common courtesy. They’re only two and four, so we’re breaking them in gently and just going for the basics:
1. They have to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.
2. No interrupting adults when adults are speaking.
3. No taking food or drinks without asking.
4. They must ask to be excused from the table after eating their dinner.
It’s fair to say we’re having a few teething problems, and not the kind that can be sorted by a quick dab of Bonjela and a dose of Calpol.
Callan is usually fairly consistent with his ‘please’ and ‘thank you’s. But lately, we’ve discovered that he carries the same rogue gene as his mother – the one that compels him to find his own bad, obtuse or inappropriate jokes absolutely hilarious.
Last week, we were in a pizza restaurant (the Low equivalent of nirvana) and a waitress was taking our order. ‘I’d like fresh orange juice,’ Callan announced.
My right eyebrow, the one that is responsible for maintaining order and discipline in our house, shot upwards at the speed of light. It’s not an attractive look, but it usually gets the message across. ‘What’s the magic word?’ I asked haughtily. Cal gave a sly glance at Brad. I recognised the signal – it’s very subtle, but that quick look invariably accompanies them having a high-speed telepathic conversation to plan out a strategy for imminent mischief. The waitress was fidgeting so I knew I had to speed things up.
‘What’s the magic word?’ I prompted again.
A cheeky smile, another impish peek at his brother, a deep breath, then in the loudest voice his wee lungs could support, he announced ‘PUMP!’
At which point, Callan, Brad and everyone at the eight tables within earshot collapsed into fits of giggles.
Just my luck to have spawned a comedian.
Still, at least it’s better than Brad’s efforts. Brad, aka Wee Chunky, isn’t the most eloquent of toddlers and has developed a particular fondness for the word ‘okay’. Thus, reminders about manners tend to go along the lines of:
‘Say “please”, Brad.’
Brad: ‘Okay.’
‘No, not “okay”, “please”. You have to say “please” if you want something.’
Brad: ‘Okay.’
‘No, “please”. Not “okay”. Say “please”.’
Brad: ‘Okay.’
It can go on for hours. It could be worse. His one-favourite-word vocabulary could consist only of a loud, proud ‘pump’.
We’re not having much more success with the concept of waiting in turn to speak. Both boys were like those really annoying ascending ringtones that you get on mobile phones. If husband and I were talking, they’d interject with a fairly calm, ‘Mummy, I want a biscuit/juice/toy/video/push on the swing/all-inclusive week in the most expensive suite in the Disneyland Hotel.’ (Delete as applicable.)
If we had the temerity to ignore them and continue our conversation (which of course was usually about global warming, international economic strategies or the plight of the Amazonian rainforest and never, ever a trivial verbal joust about such mundane things as whose turn it was to put out the wheelie bin) then the boys would just repeat the same sentence over and over again, getting louder with ever utterance. We’d be forced to give in when the decibel level threatened to shatter the windows.
So, as soon as we thought they could comprehend it, we introduced the concept of saying ‘excuse me’ then waiting until they were asked to continue. They haven’t quite mastered it yet. Instead, they now just shout ‘excuse me’ in gradually increasing volume until they reach the noise level of an outdoor rock concert.
Rule number three? Yesterday, I twice walked into the kitchen to see baseball boots attached to toddler-sized legs dangling out of the biscuit cupboard – a definite health hazard as the biscuit cupboard is an upper-wall unit. The only way for a four-year-old to scale that height is to climb up onto a bar stool then jump onto the kitchen worktop and balance there precariously while trying to manoeuvre the cupboard door open and locate Jaffa Cakes. I can feel another trip to accident and emergency looming.
And as for asking to be excused from the table, if we could get them to sit there long enough without having an urgent compulsion to lie on the floor, dance like Michael Flatley, or wander off to the toilet at five-minute intervals, then perhaps we’d get the chance to try that one out.
Oh, the sheer weariness of it all. Manners may maketh man, but for mum? Permission to leave the table, please.