OK, I admit it: kids are rarely kings of tact. Mine especially. Every time LL fails to say thank you or goodbye or excuse me, every time he gets on the phone with Zaidy Frummy and yells, “Buy me Lego!” or when he got bored in the middle of his four cousins’ rendition of Happy Birthday and put down the phone and walked away, and when he saw a man with a turban for the first time and asked him if he was dressed up as a clown, and when he saw a Hispanic man for the first time and asked why his face was colored in (where we lived in Western Canada: not so multicultural) (he later took a good look at himself and me and announced “Mama and I are on the Brown Team, too!”), or whenever he pushes on my paunch and asks if this baby will be a girl, I am reminded of this fact.
Then again, parents could use some work, too.
Overheard at the pool: a conversation between a mom and her son’s friend.
Tactless: “Did you visit your dad this weekend, Child of Divorce?”
Tactless: “How was it? Do you like going to your dad’s house?”
Tactless: “Really? You don’t mind going over there?”
CoD: “No–it’s great hanging out with my dad.”
Tactless: “Well, I know he’s your dad, but don’t you miss being at your mom’s house?”
CoD: “But I get to spend all week there.”
Tactless: “But wouldn’t it just be–you know, better–if your parents were still living together?”
CoD: “I don’t know . . . “
Tactless: “I mean, wouldn’t your life be so much easier . . . ?”
CoD: “I’m really happy.”
Tactless: “Are you really?”
Yay, Tactless! You win.