Obedience School

I was born ten years after my parents were married. They loved each other, and they liked each other, which was marvelous for me. Loving and liking don't necessarily go together. Since I'd probably be their only child, they were quite sure they'd love me, but they wanted to like me as well. To be liked I'd have to be likable, i.e., exhibit behavior pleasing to my parents. Pleasing behavior is learned behavior. Obedience Schools, Charm Schools, and Finishing Schools for infants and toddlers didn't exist, so I would be home schooled. My education would begin with my first diaper change.

My parents wanted me to be an early talker. My mother spoke English, French, and German flawlessly, Spanish and Italian fluently, and she read Latin with consummate ease. She planned my "courses" in conversational English. From the beginning, neither parent used baby talk. They spoke in sentences. "Your father just called. He'll be home in twenty minutes. Do you think he'd like lamb chops for dinner? You do? Well, then, lamb chops it'll be." They didn't dumb down their vocabularies. They read to me and told me stories. I listened to their conversations with each other and with their friends. I was barraged by words. The result: I was an early talker, an early participant in discussions at home and abroad. I could and did express opinions. Words are wonderful. I use them a lot.

My parents wanted me to have good high chair manners, so the three of us could eat together in the dining room. My training began when I could hold my head up, sit up in my high chair unassisted, and feed myself. I certainly needed training because I threw food and utensils, banged my plate, and squeezed food into worms. Mother never scolded or scurried about in an effort to keep me and my environment clean. Nor did she replenish what I had tossed or formed into works of art. Instead, she removed me from my high chair, mopped me up a bit, gave me my bottle, and put me in my playpen. In no time I was eating my food and swallowing my drink. I was still having too many unintentional accidents to eat in the dining room, so I would have the first part of my meal in the kitchen. Mother would then clean up the high chair and me, give me my bottle, and move me into the dining room. There I sat, drinking my milk while my parents discussed their days. I was always included in their conversations. If I dropped my bottle by accident, no action would be taken, but if I threw my bottle, I'd be banished to the playpen. The result: Before long, all three of us were eating and drinking together. The playpen was no longer visible from the dining room. It had been dismantled and stored. When I got too big for the high chair, we got a youth chair. No training on how to use it was necessary.

My parents wanted me to be friendly, welcoming. I helped them welcome guests from my git go. When I was a newborn, one would hold me while the other opened the door. They'd smile warmly and mumble their welcome while I'd cry, sleep, or smile from gas. During this phase, I was simply there. During phase two, I rarely cried or slept. I'd smile and say Hi! I was like the family dog, hoping to be petted. Phase three, the final phase, began when I could stand. Eye to eye contact became eye to knee contact. I found out that my parents usually said, "Hello! So good to see you. Come in. Come in." To prepare me further, Mother began briefing me about the guests. If they liked children, I'd be encouraged to toss in a word of my own. The result: I enjoyed being a greeter. With each smile given, I received at least one in return. When I was about 18 months old, my father's friend Harry came. At the door, I apparently smiled and said, "Hello, Trary. How does you garden grow?" He returned my smile and said, "Why just fine, thank you. The silver bells and cockle shells are all in a row." The era of small talk had officially begun.