Mind Your Manners

There was just one letter in the mailbox yesterday, and oddly enough, it was from the National League of Junior Cotillions. If you are not familiar with the organization, it is a group that teaches children how not to behave like mine.

My children aren't exactly heathens. It's just that they don't know a charger from soup bowl, a cha cha from a fox trot, or whether belching in public is rude ... or a compliment to the chef.

The mail we received included invitations for LJ and Julianna to attend cotillion classes -- at a price of $130 per child.

According to the literature, Julianna would "leave the program with the beginnings of confidence and poise that come from knowing the proper things to do."

I assume it would not qualify as "proper" that my daughter likes to say: "Mommy, I just pooted! Did you hear it?"

The invitation also promised to offer LJ instruction "in the areas of introductions, sports manners and basic table manners ... and students will learn dining in a nice restaurant -- complete with reservation, maitre d', menus and tipping."

Seriously? Does my 8-year-old really need to know how to pay the bill and tip the cashier at Chick-fil-a?

It's actually ironic that we just received this invitation, because the very topic of etiquette classes came up just a few weeks ago.

In one of my less-than-stellar parenting moments, I used etiquette classes as a threat. As in, "If you don't start being more polite to me and other adults, you will go to manners camp this summer."

It is another one of those hollow threats that I am not prepared to follow through with, but I'll be damned if it doesn't work. Since I started threatening both LJ and Julianna with manners camp, I have never heard so many pleases, thank yous, and I'm sorrys.

After receiving the invitation today, I decided to see if the National League of Junior Cotillions has a Web site. In fact, I wondered if it is even proper to have a Web site.

Apparently, it is.

Most of the site is filled with information on classes and schedules, but it also includes such juicy tidbits as: "The proper way to introduce a younger person to an older person is to remember that a young person is always introduced to the older person, unless the younger person is more important."

That infers that LJ's method of hiding behind my legs and ignoring the older person is not correct.

It also mentions that: "As a courtesy to your host, never add salt or pepper until you have tasted the food. If you need some, use it sparingly. Make it a rule to never ask for a special sauce to place on the meat."

That also implies that Julianna is exhibiting poor etiquette when she announces at a friend's house: "Can I have something else? I don't like ANY of this food -- it tastes bad."

Although I know that LJ and Julianna could stand some fine tuning in the manners department, I decided -- while browsing the National League of Junior Cotillions Web site -- that their organization was not, in fact, the way to improve my kids' habits.

On the site is a list of "10 Best Mannered People." Among those featured are:

Mark McGwire, baseball player -- alleged steroid abuser
Martha Stewart, entertaining diva -- served five-month prison sentence for lying to the government
Mel Gibson, actor -- arrested on suspicion of drunk driving, and then went on anti-Semitic tirade
Jennifer Capriati, tennis player -- arrested for marijuana possession
Whitney Houston, singer -- arrested for marijuana possession

LJ and Julianna aren't perfect ... especially when it comes to etiquette. But if those are the kinds of role models my kids will learn about with $260 worth of cotillion classes, I think I'm better off spending my money elsewhere ...

Even if they do miss out on learning "the proper way to squeeze a lemon slice and a lemon wedge."

Dropping the S*Bomb

UNC basketball coach Roy Williams made big news last week after dropping the dreaded f*bomb on live radio. Fortunately, it was after 10 p.m. and my kids were sound asleep. But earlier tonight, I wasn't so lucky.

As the Ravenscroft girls' basketball team played in the state semifinals, LJ and I were following the game on Twitter. I was also texting a friend frequent updates at her request. Late in the game, the Ravens' lead slowly slipped away ... but I kept sending my friend updates.

And as LJ carefully monitored the Twitter feed on my iPhone, I suddenly got buzzed with a new text message, which popped up on my screen in plain view.

It was just one word, but it was a doozy: SH*T.

(And just to be clear, it didn't say SHUT. Or SHOT).

I let out a shriek and quickly covered the text message with my hand. But my reaction piqued LJ's curiosity.

"Mom, what was that buzz? Why did your phone do that and what are you hiding?"

"It's a bad word," I said. "A really bad one I don't want you to see."

He forgot about it momentarily and we went back to following the game on Twitter. But as I switched to text my friend another update, the message thread was still visible ... and so was SH*T.

"Oh, I know that word," said LJ.

"You do? Where did you learn it? That's a pretty bad one," I said.

"I heard it in the movie Marley & Me," he said.

"Yes, I guess it was in there," I said. "I forgot about that."

"Mom, can I just say it once?"

"No."

"Please, I'll just whisper it to you to see if I'm right."

"Okay, whisper it."

And he did -- correct pronunciation and all.

"Now don't ever say that word again. If you ever said that at school, you would get in so much trouble!" I said.

"Don't worry, I won't," he reassured me. "But, Mom, I thought that word was spelled with two Ts."

"No," I said, "It's just one T."

It's ironic because grammarians insist that texting and instant messaging is terrible for our youth from an educational standpoint ... all those abbreviations and misspelled words are causing an erosion of the English language.

Well, that may be true to some extent. But when it comes to teaching kids the correct spelling of SH*T, I for one think texting is the bomb.

At Fever Pitch

Last night I faced a classic parenting dilemma. When is the sniffly-nosed, dreary-eyed, almost-feverish kid too sick to send to school?

After Julianna stayed home from school for two days with a fever and cold, she was still running a 99.9 temperature yesterday afternoon. Her congestion had improved, but it still lingered -- as did her runny nose.

With Jack out of town on business, I worked at home both Monday and Tuesday. Those couple of days spent inside the house -- combined with a lack of physical activity -- had us both bouncing off the walls with pent-up energy. By bedtime last night, Julianna was like a wicked little Energizer bunny who was tormenting LJ just for sport.

So how does a parent, eager to return to normalcy and even more desperate for the light of day, take an unbiased view of the school handbook line that reads, "child should be fever free for 24 hours before returning to school?"

What parent hasn't considered giving their less than healthy child a dose of Tylenol just before school drop-off and saying, "Shhh ... don't tell your teacher, honey!"

(For the record, I have only done that once, and I am NOT proud of it).

Besides, who's to say that my thermometer isn't a degree or two high? Maybe that sweatshirt was making her a little overheated? Isn't it possible all that coughing is just from spring allergies? (Never mind it's still February).

Last night, as I once again faced the no-win decision of whether to send Julianna back to school, I opted to make the most informed and objective choice I possibly could.

I left it in the hands of my hyped-up-on-cold medicine 6-year-old daughter.

"So, how do you feel?"

"I feel great!" Julianna said. And to my relief, she sounded like she really meant it.

With new found confidence, I prodded further. "Really? So you feel better than you did yesterday?"

"Yes, definitely!" she said.

I continued on. "So how bad did you feel yesterday?"

"Well," Julianna said, "I felt like I was going to explode and die!"

Not the answer I was looking for.

If she actually thought she was on the verge of spontaneous combustion just 24 hours earlier, then "feeling better than yesterday" was not a very good measuring stick.

It may not be directly referenced in the school handbook, but I assume that if a teacher suspects a child is about to implode, they will probably send that kid home early -- fever or not.

I quickly changed course and determined that the choice of "school or no school" should be made by a responsible adult. Since none were available, that left the decision up to me. And because she wasn't running a fever at bedtime last night or this morning, I sent Julianna back to school.

Today passed without incident -- no calls from the teachers or school nurse.

When I picked Julianna up this afternoon I asked her how her day was.

"Terrific!" she said as she bounded to the car.

"So you feel a lot better?" I asked. "You don't feel like you're going to explode and die?"

"No way," she said. "I think I'm gonna live."

And no Tylenol required.

If the Shoe Fits

I can think of nothing more frustrating than shopping for shoes with my children.

Julianna insists that they must have shoelaces (not Velcro). They should also be as shiny, sparkly, and tacky as possible. There is no such thing as "too pink" when it comes to shoes. And if possible, they should also be adorned with ribbons, dangling charms, and fur. (I know, it sounds more like lingerie than shoes).

LJ usually complains that shoes are too tight, not the right color, or don't fasten the way he wants (he still doesn't like to be bothered with shoelaces).

Regardless of which child I'm with, shoe shopping is painful.

Shoe shopping is so miserable that the last time LJ needed a new pair of sneakers, I avoided it for so long that the the plastic frame of the shoe actually wore through the material and was digging into his foot. He was limping around in class, so I had to leave work to run home and get him an old pair to wear at school for the rest of the day. (There goes my Mother of the Year Award).

I can understand why it is difficult for LJ to find a pair of shoes he likes. He has wide feet and most of the shoes he tries on are just too narrow. But I can still recall spending more than an hour in a Stride Rite store at the mall when LJ was 4 years old, fighting tears and tantrums (mine, not his), and trying desperately to find anything he would wear.

We finally did find some, but I think he outgrew that $50 pair of shoes within three weeks. I never went back to that store for fear they would refuse to serve me.

When it comes to Julianna, she is all about beauty before comfort. I have bought at least half a dozen pairs that she insists feel great at the store, only to find out later that they never felt good at all. She just thought they were fancy and had to have them.

And of course, by the time she tells me they don't really fit, we've already cut off the tags and scuffed them up just enough so they can't be returned.

Last weekend, Jack and I spent at least 30 minutes picking out a pair of new soccer cleats with LJ. We even made him run laps in the store to make sure he was comfortable. He had vehemently insisted that he needed new cleats because his old ones were so agonizingly small that he couldn't even get them on.

Tonight, after I laced up LJ's new cleats for his first practice of the season, he stood up and said, "Mom, these are too big, they are slipping in the heel."

Well, you would have thought that LJ had just told me he'd cut his sister's curls off with garden shears. I completely lost it. All my years of shoe shopping frustration came to the boiling point.

It's all a bit of a blur now, but think I was stomping through the house, mumbling words under my breath that would make Roy Williams blush, and shooting LJ a look like, "If you even come near me I will burn lasers through you with my eyes."

I was furious.

But, since I was expecting his coach to pick him up for practice at any moment, I composed myself long enough to find the old cleats in the garage.

When LJ got home from practice, I asked him how his old cleats felt, and he just looked at me like a deer in headlights.

It's kind of like when a wife asks her husband, "Which one of my friends do you think is the prettiest?"

There is no right way to answer that question.

After our little episode tonight, I have decided that Jack is doing all of the shoe shopping for the kids -- without me.

I know it may seem like I'm blowing this whole shoe thing out of proportion. But, let me just ask you this. Please, please try not to judge me for my shopping insanity.

At least not until you've walked a mile in my shoes.

Dresser Monsters and Other Bumps in the Night

I had a hard time getting the kids to sleep last night. Both of them repeatedly got out of bed with the same complaint: "I'm scared!"

LJ heard a mysterious thump somewhere in his room, and decided he could not possibly get back in bed until our dog came to sleep on his floor. Thankfully, at age 10, Viking is happy to oblige any time there is snoozing involved.

Julianna wanted to get a blanket out of her dresser, and when I asked her why she couldn't get it herself, she said, "You know I have a fear of that."

"That" apparently is a fear of opening her dresser in the dark ... just in case a bureau monster is lurking within.

To ease LJ and Julianna to sleep at night, Jack and I acquiesce to a series of bedtime rituals for each child.

The checklist includes things like night lights, hugs, kisses, special stuffed animals, noise machines, and closing drawers and doors.

LJ's list is a little more intricate and often involves multiples of 8 -- his "lucky" number. (It really is quite an impressive mathematical system he's developed).

If their demands are not met precisely, LJ and Julianna hold us for mental ransom by whining until, in a fit of exhaustion, we cave like an avalanche.

I feel confident that at least one, if not both of my children, will have a successful career in the field of hostage negotiations.

And although I know in my head that the whole routine is ridiculous and could probably be stopped by putting down my big, bad Mommy foot ... my heart has a soft spot.

I remember what those fears felt like. I was terrified of the dark and slept with both a night light and my closet light on. I too needed a stuffed animal, and "bumps in the night" made my heart skip a beat.

There is something sweet about Julianna believing that Mommy is a like a superhero who is powerful enough to keep the monsters away with just a quick peek under the bed.

And there is something touching about LJ thinking that a half-blind, arthritic yellow Lab is mean enough to protect him with his tail-wagging toughness and wretched doggy breath.

To adults, these fears (and salves) may seem irrational. But to children, they are as real as the Tooth Fairy and Leprechauns.

It won't be long before LJ and Julianna outgrow their nighttime fears, and I'm sure I'll be glad the drama is behind us. But in the meantime, I'll suck it up and make a few extra trips up and down the stairs when they need reassurance.

I know that the teenage years are just around the corner, and when we reach that point, the tables will turn. They won't need me to save them anymore from their imagined monsters, noises, or ghosts.

Instead I'll have to summon my superhero powers to fight off sex, drugs, and rock and roll.