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.

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.

Swiftly fly the years, and shit.

I am outraged.

I just returned from a marathon of emotional manipulation the likes of which I have not experienced since that fucking E.T. almost died but then (spoiler alert!) didn't die and returned to his alien peoples. And I am outraged! I said that already.

Picture, if you will, twenty rosy-cheeked preschoolers wearing paper mortarboards, solemnly processing to a taped version of "Pomp and Circumstance." Then those same preschoolers singing a cappella songs about growing up and learning their numbers. Then those SAME damn kids, some of them waving to their parents, getting their preschool diplomas. And wait a minute, one of them is your son! And he's standing incredibly still so as to keep the mortarboard on his head, and he's gazing at his diploma with obvious satisfaction and pride! And his teachers are crying! DAMN THEM ALL TO HELL. I was there to take pictures and congratulate my son, not frantically blink back tears while scouring my purse for a used Kleenex. My stomach still hurts from holding in the sobs. Dicks! All of them!

And it's not even like he's really graduating from preschool—he still has another year of preschool because some genius decided to be born six days after the cut-off date. But still, DAMN IT, it was adorable.

While you're here, I've got a Wonderland post from this week for you to read, and also from last week. Please note that the URL for Wonderland has changed. There are some exciting new changes over at Alphamom, including new Baby Name Finder and Product Ratings sections. Change is good, unless it arrives in the form of your child graduating and his school faculty and administration creating an event designed solely to make you sing "Sunrise, Sunset" to yourself and leave mascara puddles on your husband's button-down.

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing

School

At school, you learn math. Here is a math question:

Are we going to ride a bike, or not ride a bike?

The answer is: RIDE A BIKE. When correcting your student, karate chop the air with each word and then glare at her for at least five seconds. Math is important!

Extra credit: after 39 comes 30-10.

God

Is just a burning bush.

Mosquitoes

Will remove all your blood if you're not careful.

Work

When you are the boss, you should be the #1 boss.

A good boss will always shout at his subordinates. He can shout the following:

I command you to make me a sandwich!

Work or you'll be fired!

Work I will give you threats!

Work or I will kill you! With a boomerang!

Your subordinates will tolerate boomerang-talk more than they will talk of guns, so go with BOOMERANGS.