“Uhhh! Come ON!” “Honey, I know, but I told you, the cheeseburgers aren’t ready yet.”
“But I’m hungry NOW!”
“Well if you want you could have a hamburger now. They’re all ready to –”
“What else do they have?” the boy cut across his mother’s words.
“I don’t know,” the woman said brightly. “Why don’t I go see? Be right back.”
The mother headed out across the crowded lawn of a suburban pool, leaving her son, a freckled and skinny individual of about 10, to stew alone at the covered picnic table where they had put their things. He looked around sulkily, stabbing his heel into the ground.
It was of those recent superheated days during which even a seat in the shade couldn’t forestall the feeling that you were turning on a barbecue spit. Even the most polite child might be forgiven a bit of petulance under such circumstances, but this kid, it seemed pretty clear, was not the most polite child.
“Look what I found!” His mother was back with handfuls of bright packages. She laid the votive offerings on the table in propitiation of her household god.
The child turned a bland eye on the gifts. She had brought him two packages of Doritos, a cylinder of chewy Mentos candy, a packet of Starburst candies, and a cold root beer. For many children, this would have seemed an Aladdin’s cave of goodies, but not for this boy. He didn’t even acknowledge it.
“Where’s my cheeseburger?”
This enquiry was delivered with the impatience and contempt of long practice. It was accepted with the docility of equally long experience.
“I’m going right back to get it, honey,” the woman said, cracking open the soda for him.
Observing the dynamic, it was impossible not to feel rather sorry for both of them. Neither was well served: A boy should behave respectfully toward his mother; a mother should expect respect from her son. At the very least, a child should use “please” and “thank you,” and if he doesn’t, a parent ought to require it.
It’s also probably true that, given the modern spectrum and the incredible elasticity of adult tolerance, this boy wasn’t even particularly discourteous. Perhaps there was never a halcyon time of intergenerational consideration, I don’t know; it’s a certainty, however, that this woman was one of many parents who permit their young children routinely to address them with stunning insolence.
“You get started on these,” the woman was urging. “I’ll go right back to see if your other food is ready.”
As she moved away into the sweltering hordes, the boy at last deigned to address the submissions before him. He drank root beer and looked around.
Adults were sprawled across deck chairs and towels, checking their phones as they simmered. The pool was a cheerful splashing mass of limbs. Gusts of hamburger and sausage vapors moved across the scene.
The sullen minor deity was unappeased. He was still waiting for his burnt offering, or at least one that was charcoal-grilled.
Meghan Cox Gurdon’s column appears on Sunday and Thursday. She can be contacted at [email protected].
