What entitled behavior of adults teaches the kids

Notes:  

First, I will use the terms "entitlement" and "rudeness" interchangeably in the following post because they are the same thing. 

Second, none of this applies to the beleaguered parents of uncontrollable children we see in airports, supermarkets, or other places where they have to be, and are already miserable enough without the pursed-lip scrutiny of strangers. In those situations, if you're a nice person, the thing to do is tell those parents that someday they'll miss these times and should enjoy them while they can, so that at least you can make them  laugh.  

Please continue.

In my travels around the internet last week, I came across the story of Grant Achatz, a chef in Chicago who is considering a ban on small children in his restaurant, Alinea. The story goes that, short a babysitter, a couple brought their infant with them to the pricey Alinea where dinner runs about $265 a plate. The baby cried throughout the evening (of course) and diners who'd secured their non-refundable plates months in advance, were outraged.

I'd like to be appalled by the entitled behavior of this couple but entitled adults are everywhere and you can only be so appalled by the same thing for so long.  However, I caught a glimpse of entitlement in the making, just last week.  

Which was appalling.  

We were meeting friends for dinner in a restaurant, which, on the scale of eateries in our little Concord, NH is more "up" than "down". It is known for quiet ambiance and is popular among couples in their forties and fifties rather than twenties and thirties. The menu is comprised of old family recipes, the prices are on the higher side.

It was around 6:00 and not that busy yet, so we took a seat at the bar to have a glass of wine and wait. 

A party of six entered the restaurant, two couples, each with a child of about three or four. 

So far so good; cute kids, nice adults.

Within ten minutes, the kids were standing up in the booth and tossing things across the table, while the couples looked past them to chat with each other. The noise level increased and a server appeared to get things rolling. A moment later, there were sounds of a disagreement and the manager headed over.

I began to eavesdrop, first, because that's my job, and, second, because I was sitting right there.

"Why can't you?" one of the men asked the manager.

"Sir, the entrees are served as they are described."

"My kids don't eat like that."

"We can't create and price new entrees to order."

"You can't just throw a little pasta and butter together?"

"It disrupts the kitchen to part from the menu."

"You have, what, like ten people here? I don't see why you can't accommodate us."

This went on for a while. 

"I can't do that." 

"You just don't want to do that."

"I could check with the chef, but I know what the answer will be."

"I've been here many times, tell the chef that."

The manager started for the kitchen, turned, came back.

"On second thought, I'd like you to leave," he said. "I don't appreciate your attitude. It isn't what you're asking for, it's your attitude. "

The man was  incredulous. "You got to be kidding me."

"I mean it," the manager said. "Find another place to eat."

"Just stop," one of the women pleaded,  "Just stop it."

Nothing happened for a few seconds while the manager stood his ground and the man gaped. 

"Go ahead," said the manager, "find somewhere else."

The couples and their children slid from the booth and started for the door, the two men making loud, over the shoulder comments about rude, unaccommodating restaurants to which they would not return, to which they would make sure their friends never returned, or anyone else to whom they would be sure to report what happened, etc.

At the bar, the manager was noticeably upset. 

"Nice job," I said. "I was wondering how far away from them you could put us."

"I never do that," said the manager. "It was his attitude."

And this is the thing about entitled people. They make you feel intolerant when you refuse to put  up with them, and passive when you do.

A year ago, I saw the same kind of thing in another upscale bar (we have three) where my husband and I met for dinner after a week apart. A couple entered, their small, tired, complaining kids in tow, and proceeded to order drinks, appetizers and entrees while their restless children hopped on and off the stools, saying, "Mama, I'm bored." Over a row of planters was an enormous dining room, nearly empty, where Mama might have made her bored children more comfortable, but where, evidently, she did not prefer to sit.  They not only couldn't have appeared less concerned about how their kids were behaving, they couldn't have appeared less concerned about how everyone else was affected.

And this is the other thing about entitled people. They address obnoxious behavior by normalizing it, using lazy rationale like, "Kids will be kids".

I'm fascinated by entitlement; what people expect just for waking up in the morning.  But as satisfying as it is to watch adults who behave this way get their comeuppance, it is discouraging to see them model this behavior in front of their kids who will first be kids, and then be adults.

Entitlement begins at home, where children learn that only some people deserve respect, while others don't, where one's own needs are more important than anyone else's and where demanding and sulking bring faster results than negotiating or compromising. They grow up to treat servers badly, refuse to wait in line, abuse customer service people on the phone and bring their crying babies to very expensive restaurants where they feel they have as much right to stay put as anyone else who paid.

Chef Achatz tweeted the question: "should babies be banned from expensive restaurants?"

They should be. Cell phones are banned in nice dining rooms and like cell phones, babies can go off anytime. But more than that, a restaurant owes me a nice dining experience in exchange for my non-refundable cash, more than they owe entitled, rude people their good manners.

More than thirteen things I learned in 2013

"What a year."

--Writer cat Gus Bonifant

This is my favorite time to post for two reasons. I don't  have to apologize for being preachy because you can't write  a "what I learned" post without being preachy.  And, after a year of paying attention to people - the things they say and don't say, the ways they are treated and how they treat others, what they expect, what they ask for, what they turn from - it's finally time for my book report.

First, I'll say this.  2013 was not an easy year, but it could have been harder.

I experienced more grief than I saw coming when my brother died, and joy that made my head spin when our daughter married. I became closer to all of the people I love, found the ones I need to know better, and learned who I will never really know at all. Working with teenagers at the Boys and Girls Club gave me a chance to give back, and taught me things about  spirit and resilience that improved my own life. 

And now, here are some observations about marriage, kids, friends, achievement and other stuff that occurred to me in 2013 which I find worth mentioning. If anything makes your life a little better, a little easier or a little anything-er, it will have made those scribbled post-it notes that are all over the house and in my car worth it.

Help yourself.

MARRIAGE

• Any marital issue can be resolved more easily if you know going in that you're going to stay together.  If that's your assumption, issues make you stronger.  If that isn't your assumption, issues  become grounds.  
• There is an art to disagreeing in a marriage.  It starts with your intention: I want to agree with you, versus I want my way. One makes each future disagreement healthier. The other just shortens the list of things you can talk about. 
• It's amazing what great depth and deep connection can exist in a marriage and never be discovered, until you need it most.  It hides. You might not find it until you trip over it and nearly kill yourself in the fall. But then, you won't want to live without it.  

PEACE OF MIND

• Sooner or later in your travels, you might realize you're  not who you thought you would be. You might also be someone you never imagined you could be. Cut the engine and look around.  You've arrived.  Life doesn't always look like it did in the magazine. 
• Therapy isn't what crybabies do. What crybabies do is complain without doing anything about it.  If you're unhappy, and you're not looking for someone to talk things over with because it's easier to just complain, that's one choice. But that is what crybabies do. 
• Mind, body, relationships. Do something each day that will improve all of these things and don't keep track. In a month, look back at how much better your life is. Even in areas that didn't need improvement, there will be improvement. 
• Never be without something you're looking forward to on the calendar.

  KINDNESS

• Once, a person I knew who was living a terrible life with small children, no husband, no money, no confidence, no job, and no friends wrote a poem about how grateful she was. She showed it to me. I recognized it from somewhere else. I told her she was brilliant. It was the best lie I've ever told
• Once in a while, give money to a person on the street corner who is holding a sign that says "Homeless, anything will help." Give them a bottle of water with it. Instead of thinking you're  contributing to their delinquency,  just for a few seconds, make their life easier.

  PERSPECTIVE

• The things that repeatedly throw you off track might be the track, so pay attention. 
• If you're on the fence about doing something because it seems too big or tiring, make yourself do it. If you're making yourself do something you dread because of  some notion that it is expected of you, find a way to make it worthwhile or cancel. Life is short. 
• Once,  I described a  problem to a friend and she said, "What will you do about that?"  I was surprised to realize I had an answer.  Say this to  anyone who comes to you for a solution to something.  Statements tell others who we are. Questions teach others about themselves. 
• When you feel conflicted, unsure and afraid it isn't because you don't know what to do that makes your tummy ache.  It's just the opposite - it's because you do know exactly what you have to do. Act.

 PARENTING

• If you want to give your children the best advice, first, pretend you're not related. 
• Connect with a teenager while there are still questions in their eyes. It won't be long before you'll see answers instead, and not always the ones you would have helped put there.
• If you know a child who is moody, snarky, and generally hard to be with, deal with it but be grateful. It's worse when they only feel free to be wretched in private. 
• If you are saying goodbye to a teenager with whom you have been clashing, you may be sad about the lost chances to have a better relationship. Don't do this. You've only lost the chance to have a worse one.
• Relationships with grown children get better, richer, happier and joyful with every conversation that takes place after a separation. 
• If you find good, mindful and responsible parenting hard and confusing and exhausting and rewarding and baffling and gorgeous, you're doing it right.

PLAYING WELL WITH OTHERS

• The things we could say to clear the air with another can be as hard to part with as a coat in the cold.  They expose us.  But if a relationship is worth having, expressions of disappointment,  like expressions of love,  must be shared. Left unsaid, they  will erode the soul. 
• When you're lying, people usually know it, whether they do anything about it or not. 
• Don't be a person who claims to "hate drama" and then discusses a conflict with someone behind their back.  If you do, you not only don't hate drama, you create it. If they're worth knowing, face the people with whom you've clashed and keep it between yourselves.
• Sometimes people don't love us as we wish they would, no matter how often we ask them to.  And it may require great sadness to understand your invitation has been declined. Stop asking.  Be the one to let go. There will be plenty of people left who would do anything for you. 

ACCOMPLISHMENT

• Be proud of things you've done that required hard work, tenacity and faith. But be proudest of things you've accomplished that required you to overcome something else  first. Like fear. 
• Confidence isn't something you get. Nobody can improve it for you or tell you where it is.  Confidence comes from doing something you're not good at until you can't remember what it was like to be bad at it.   
• No amount of anti-aging products, make up or new clothes can compete with the first good night's sleep after you've done something very hard. 

My thanks to you for stopping by. As I said last year, if you like it here, come back soon and bring your friends. 

And, it is worth mentioning, that I love you for reading.

Seven Words

Many years ago, on our tenth anniversary, Larry gave me an anniversary band. At the time, a "Diamonds are Forever" campaign was underway, urging men to "give her something that says you'd marry her all over again".  During a tight financial year, this  gift was especially meaningful,  and I've taken good care of it.

The other day, while I was shopping for groceries, between ice cream and frozen vegetables, I heard a "clink". It was barely audible. I looked at the floor around me for something I might have dropped.  An old man noticed. "Lose something?" he asked, and started looking around with me.

But we found nothing.

That night, when I took off my rings, I discovered that my anniversary band was missing. I remembered that little "clink", realized that the metal had broken, and the ring had fallen from my finger.

The sadness at losing this was numbing.  More than missing the ring itself, was to remember what it symbolized: that at a time when it wasn't easy for him to do it, my husband had found this extravagant way to tell me, he'd marry me all over again.

You've probably had that sinking feeling when, even as you realize where you dropped or forgot something, even as you're placing the call to ask about it, you know the person at the other end will be of no help whatsoever. I've called hotels about forgotten jackets, restaurants about glasses, etc.  You wait while they open the door to the office, glance left and right and come back to tell you, "nope, not here." In the meantime,  you've already decided to shop for a replacement.

But there was no replacement for this  piece of jewelry and the statement it made after ten years of marriage, when normal pressures of raising small children, managing finances, negotiating schedules had  allowed us to show each other both the best and worst of ourselves.  And though we have since assured each other of our commitment without a gift or campaign to make the point, this ring represented  an important message at a time that is pivotal in any marriage.

So, my hopes were not high when I called Hannaford at nine-thirty that night to ask a tired, overworked part-timer if he or she would mind searching the floor in Frozen Foods, but that's what I did.

After a ten minute wait on hold, during which two other employees picked up to ask who I was holding for, Kathy from Customer Service was back.

"I have it," she said.

"You do not," I said.

"It's right here. I'm putting it in the safe until you get here."

I've thought about that campaign since, the symbolic importance of this lost and found ring.

It strikes me that of the things we feel for each other, the things we should say, I would marry you all over again, has more sway, more healing power than any other message.   It is not a message that  loses substance with time. It is not the "I love you" we toss out when we hang up the phone or leave the house.

It is also a message that can be as easily lost, forgotten, misplaced, broken as a piece of jewelry.

When it falls off, it may not be with more than a tiny clink , you may not notice right away, but when you discover it's gone, your first regret will be your failure to notice the crack and do something about it. And there won't always be a Hannaford employee to help you get it back when that happens.

So, do that.  Fuse those cracks. If you mean them, say those words:

I would marry you all over again.

First love

When I was a young child I lived near an open field where sometimes, under the black night sky, I would stretch out to study the expanse of sparkly stars and wonder, what's beyond you? What comes after you? It was  incomprehensible to imagine anything bigger.

"Heaven," I decided. "That's where Heaven is."  Lacking any better description of Heaven, it made sense to me.

A week ago, sad over new and  lingering memories of my brother as a younger and younger person, happy and healthy, I looked to the sky again.

"Bill?"

Nothing.

"A little help here, please."

Nothing.

"Fine. Tell God I need him then."

Heaven is a busy place during the holidays, apparently, because God was tied up as well. I put those memories of retro-Bill away, reasoning that this stage of the goodbye process, was probably the last.

"Gone, then," I decided.

More than thirty-five years ago, when he was in high school, my brother fell in love with Robin, a girl nobody ever forgot - especially my brother.  She was small and lively,  with a laugh in her voice and joyful eyes that  made people feel lucky to know her - particularly my brother. It changed his life to find her, and they were inseparable. They shared interests, had the same friends, lived big, lived in full, like there was no tomorrow, also known as, today.

Eventually, life happened, distance happened, time passed. They went their separate ways, took different paths. Nobody saw or heard from her again - including my brother. For as long as I knew him, until he met his son years later, no other relationship lit him up like that.

He never did show up for our meeting last week, and for the first time since we lost him, I could not sense his presence. Gone, then.

The next day, Robin found me on Facebook.

She'd learned of his death in a high school newsletter and she was crushed. Not because she'd harbored hopes of reuniting - she hadn't. And not because she isn't happy in her life now - she is. But, was she the love of his life, as he was hers? Yes, I told her. Nothing else came close.   

Because, however great are the loves that follow, however lasting, or fateful  or tried and true - none will do to our lives and hearts what the first one does.

It comes with a life span, first love does; a beginning and an end. Its memory is perfect and intact, it occupies a special place  in our histories forever,  a bright, high sun over everything that follows. It is the end of a diving board, when taking a little risk to go further is first required and then becomes involuntary.

First love is proof that at least once, you possessed the capacity to connect without a thought for the why, how long, and "if" of it.  There is longing without reservation, adventure without caution and communication that is pure and not parsed.  There is knowing you may reach the end of the ride someday without believing it for a second.

First love is the cleanest thing in the world.

I don't believe anyone forgets, or doesn't love, their first love, a little bit, for the lifelong memory it creates of who we were and of what we can mean to someone else.   

For anyone who laments that it came, and then went without the right send off, take heart. If you were ever lucky enough to experience this starter-love, and wise enough to let it go while it still had the power to shape your future, you did it right.   

If you haven't fallen in love yet, take heart.  It can't be rushed, there's no deadline, and you can't ask for it. No serious love - whether it's the first or the last - responds to invitations.  

And then, one night, one day, one afternoon, you will suddenly realize that without  meaning to, trying to, or even wanting to, you've already opened your heart to someone who wants to be nowhere else.

There is only one  thing that will come of this company which is to answer  all your questions about everything in the world that matters.

If you've already experienced this, you're better for it.

If you haven't,  lucky you, it waits.

Thank you Bill, and Robin, for showing up.

The algebra of happiness - giving up stuff I'm just not good at

Life is a lot of things, but mostly,  life is a a big algebra equation.

I am bad at a few things. I'm bad at cooking fish. I'm bad at "fast" dancing. I'm bad at giving speeches.

I gave fish a shot but it never took on its cookbook image, all browned and seasoned next to a scrumptious side. No. Fish that I prepare just looks tired and sick, and practically begs to be put out of its misery. A while back I  thought about the algebra of this: Even if I could perfect fish cooking it wouldn't matter because I don't particularly like fish. So, I don't do it anymore.

"Fast" dancing is required infrequently enough to fake it when I have to.  And, where I would have to, would be in a setting where people are thinking too much about their own dancing to notice. So I do it, do it badly, and don't really care.  That algebra works.

The  speech thing has always been my hill to conquer, something I've created a little space for in my skill set but can't seem to fill.  

Ironically, one of the things I do very, very well is coach teenagers at the Boys and Girls club to speak in public, requested as they often are to tell their stories before all kinds of audiences.  It works because I draw from my expertise as an audience member, not a speaker. As a speaker, I myself could use a coach.

I follow this simple prep route when I've been asked to give a speech or present myself as a specialist of any kind:  I organize what I'm going to say, edit out the fillers,  practice in the car, in the shower, in my head, out loud before the mirror, and think about absolutely nothing else until it's over.

That can take days. But that's how I deal with it. By dealing with nothing else.

Speech giving is my  crook in the alley; the thing I can't always see coming. While I certainly avoid those bad neighborhoods, "opportunities" to speak still pop up and, even knowing how worked up I get, do I politely decline?  No.  When I'm asked to speak, I think about that space in the skill set and accept the challenge to hone and polish and lay this skill alongside the others. Perfect it even. Bake it to a delicious, golden brown and season to taste.

Seven or eight times out of ten, I nail  it. Then, I enjoy a half day or so of euphoria when I return to my other neglected duties, and love with all my heart that no other such challenge looms in the foreseeable future.

That algebra doesn't work:  days of obsessing in return for a half a day of euphoria. I really can't adjust either side of that equation - half a day of obsessing, or days of euphoria, so I am thinking that speech giving should go the way of fish making.

I would be nervous about this if I were thirty. When you're thirty, you just know, in all those years that remain, you're going to have to face your crook in the alley more than once. Maybe several times.

But one of the ever joyous benefits of not being in my thirties is that I make decisions quickly about how to spend my time and do little that doesn't keep that equation in balance.

So, most of the time, it's like this:  Effort and expectation = Benefit and happiness

However, when it comes to public speaking,

STRESS AND ANGST = happiness

See what I mean?

So, with that, I am embracing one of the quickest decisions ever: done with speeches, something I will miss as much I look forward to it.

That algebra works.

Hit Submit

Foreword:  In the crazy October days leading up to the college-bound student's early decision application deadline, there is little time to think about what lies ahead. That's what November is for.  

I've reposted our experience, because it's as true today as it was two years ago:  October is about the trip to the post office. November is about everything else.

Our son, Sam, has applied early decision to Elon. “We” have not applied early decision to Elon, as I recently heard myself say, like couples who say, "we're pregnant."

Sam has applied early decision to Elon. We haven’t.

But we’re hoping we get in.

The good thing about the abbreviated, early decision application timeline – a semi-frantic period that squeezes September and swallows October whole, and requires the ED applicant to gather transcripts, sit for the last SAT, line up letters of recommendation and craft the most significant experience of their seventeen years into (all hail) The Essay – is that there is little time to think about what comes next, which is November. 

That is not what October is for.

  

October is about getting ready for college while the month passes at double the speed of any other, until the only thing left to do is hit “submit” and heave a huge sigh of relief.  It is not about shorter grocery lists, or empty laundry hampers, or the day ten months from now, when you will hug your ED applicant goodbye, go to the airport, and sit at the gate where you will point to the child of stranger-parents and say, "Sure, now they're having tantrums and spilling juice on my suitcase, but blink and you'll be dropping them off at college."

No, October is about nagging and follow through, setting up tutors, waiting for scores, reading and editing the resume. It is about saying at least once a week, “If I have to bug you to (tedious task here), what will happen when I’m not there to bug you?” as if the ED Applicant will lose your contact information right after you hug him goodbye and go to the airport, where a teenager sitting next to you will look so much like your ED applicant, you'll want to give him money for lunch and ask him if he’s okay on gas. 

October gets you ready for college.

November gets you ready for the airport. 

November is for musing over the path that has led you here, where you have learned that, flawed as it turns out you each are, you are perfect in the roles you occupy for each other. 

November is for the moments when, on your own, in the breezy dark, you look into the sky and say to God, “If you keep him safe next year, I will never, ever drive in the left lane again.”  

November is for letting your eyes rest on your ED applicant’s face a little longer than necessary, maybe even to the point where he says, “What? What’s wrong? What are you doing? Is there something on my face?” while you smile and say, “Of course not, you’re wonderful,” and finish memorizing the moment. 

November is for making very sure that the next nine months are like the ones before you met your ED applicant- joyful and not stressful, full of trepidation and anticipation, both. November is for making sure that every conversation, even the candid, not-so-nice ones, are valued because they all reflect the honesty of your relationship.

  

“So, tonight, we hit submit,” I said to Sam over lunch at Uno’s recently.

He looked startled.

“It’s done,” I said.

“I should look at it one more time,” he said.

“You can if you want.”

“There might be something missing,” he said.

“There’s nothing missing,” I said.

There was a beat. A blink.

“You’re ready,” I said.

He nodded. “You’re right,” he said, “I am.”

There was a time last year when I felt, but tried not to show, impatience with parents who anticipated the absence of their college-bound children with melancholy. I almost said, but didn’t, how unfair it is to complicate a teenager’s already mixed feelings about separating with worry over how their parents are handling it.  

Something stopped me from being that snarky, maybe it was God (who has pulled me back to the curb more than once) but more likely, it had something to do with Octobers past, and Novembers future and what happens to us in airports. 

We’re ready. 

Before and after the times of your life

My twenties

Foreword:   If you blog with regularity like I do, sooner or later you'll talk about "before" parts of your life which weren't the times you're fondest of.  One great thing about "after", which is now, is that you don't care because you have a point to make.  

Late in the fall of his freshman year,  our son Sam said to me: "I am already almost halfway through twenty-five percent of what everyone says are the best years of my life that I'm going to have. That freaks me out."

I know the feeling.

Every so often, usually in connection with a milestone, or major family event, or a big birthday, I wake up and think,  "What? Over already?"

It's a melancholy little pothole to find yourself in,  brooding over all that has happened and what has gone by.

When I am completely on my own nerves, I come around to this: I am not just okay with what has happened already, I am better off  because of what is over, like my twenties, one of those other times of life that people tell you are your best. I think not.

Youth isn't free.

If I looked better and needed less sleep to be nice, I also worried constantly about the impression I made on people, how respected I was, how I was regarded  at work, and whether I would ever stop feeling competitive with "er" people -  the smarter, prettier, richer, funnier ones - enough to forge a real friendship with them.    

I was a salad of insecurities.

In my twenties, I wore great clothes and turned heads. I was also divorced after eighteen months and  wondered how I would ever love one person for the rest of my life.  How I would ever learn to talk to children, who I found frightening. Why my nemesis, Katie-in-Benefits, was able to endear herself to the senior management without wearing perfume and tossing her hair around. Members of senior management asked Katie to meetings. They asked me out for drinks.

People in young and transitional years  can't imagine themselves or their lives as different, much less better. When I was in my young and transitional years,  I couldn't either. I imagined  life would always be a roller coaster of up and down days, with moods that came and went like weather, and hoped I'd just learn to keep up.  The future was shapeless and murky, but the present was no bargain either.  I had the opposite, traumatic thought:  These? These are the times of my life?

Had a future me been able to appear at the side of salad me on one of those daunting, misty pre-dawn mornings when I worried about what I would worry about later,  I would have said : Take heart. Some people invest for a long time before they see a return.   

I reminded Sam last year that the times of a person's life don't happen the same way or at the same time for everyone. And I reminded him of  the things that wait - college, career, relationships, friends, travel - all times that he is "before" right now, but which only look like "after" to a person who is not yet twenty and is, yes, having the time of his life - to date.

If this sounds like the tired, I'd-rather-be happy-than-young rationale it isn't. That just sounds mournful and desperate to me. In my book, if the last couple of decades are any indication, anything worth doing gets better with time, not age.

Because.

Now.

After...

Every relationship means something to me 

I have friends I cherish for the times of life we've shared

I attune to children - young and grown - as easily as I breathe

I have discovered beauty and resilience in marriage like a secret room in the house.

Happiness feels earned and deserved and not serendipitous.

Fear and worry come with revelations in the middle, like expensive candy

There is a choice to make on those days when you wake up and think "Already?"  Freak out over what's over, or, focus on what waits.

I have plans, big plans. And I know this:

Before I published my first novel, and thought I never would, and kept trying...

Before we moved to Boston to experience  urban life...

Before we started renting an ocean home each August for family drop-ins...

Before our last child graduated college....

Before the rest of our children fell in love and got married...

Before our first grandchild was born...

Before I celebrated dozens more life milestones with my closest friends...

It was now.