How to Tell if You've Properly Indoctrinated Your Child

We're pretty big on the "please"'s and "thank you"'s 'round here. I can remember visiting my grandmother with a friend when I was 13 or so. 13, of course, being the or, at least, approaching the absolute peak of disdain for anything parental or, really, just about anything non-girl. Not that I ever talked to a girl when I was 13. . . or 14. . . or 15. So, we were up at my granmother's farm, and I remember, at the end of the weekend, grandma commenting, "Polite boys." At the time, I took it as a compliment, but now that I'm older an wiser, I realize she meant, "Probably, these kids are punk-bastards. They are, however, polite punk-bastards."

In an effort to create our own, polite punk-bastard, we've got Max on the please and thank you train. Even when he's a screaming, bellowing mess, we can convince him to ask politely for something. This usually results in the dialectical comedy of going from, "I WANT ICE CREAM!!!!!" to an absolute whisper of, "I. could. have. some. icce. cream, pllleaasse." Because, if you've been yelling, and you've been asked to be polite, it means you should whisper your request, right?

Last night, though, it became clear that our brainwashing was taking hold. It was 1:30 am and Max had been fighting through the first night of cold. After deciding that sleeping on Daddy wasn't as comfortable as he'd like, he unhappyily stumbled into bed. 1:30 am, exhausted, stuffed-up nose, half-crying, feels like crap and we have this exchange:

"Are you ready to get into bed, Tex?"

"Yeah." And he climbs into bed. "Hey!," he says, getting under the covers. "Where's my kitty?" (Never mind that "kitty" is actually a bear in a kitty suit. Some Starbucks Halloween leftover).

"Here's your kitty, big guy."

"Oh, thank you, daddy."

"You're welcome."

It was then that I knew he was ready for the next phase of training: He was our little Patty Hearst and it was time for some SLA-style bank robbery. . . but polite SLA-style bank robbery!