CHAPTER XXXI
OUR OWN AND OTHER PEOPLE’S CHILDREN
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON, in one of her novels, thus describes a discourtesy to which mothers of young children are much given:
“Talking with a mother when her children are in the room is the most trying thing conversationally; she listens to you with one ear, but the other is listening to Johnnie; right in the midst of something very pathetic you are telling her she will give a sudden, perfectly irrelevant smile over her baby’s last crow, and your best story is hopelessly spoiled because she loses the point (although she pretends she hasn’t) while she arranges the sashes of Ethel and Totsie.”
There is a protest in the paragraph quoted that will find an answering groan in many a heart. Who of us does not wish that mothers of small children would adopt a few rules of ordinary politeness and courtesy, and, when talking to a guest, give attention that is not shared and almost monopolized by the child who happens to be present?
THE SMALL BOY
Parents make the mistake of thinking that their children must be as absorbingly interesting to all visitors and acquaintances as they are to those to whom they belong. This is a vast mistake. No matter how fond one may be of the young of his species, one does enjoy a conversation into which they are not dragged, and talks with more freedom if they are not present. Certainly it is far better for the child to learn to run off and amuse himself than to sit by, listening to talk not meant for his ears. Those of us who were children many years ago were not allowed to make nuisances of ourselves to the extent that children of to-day do, and surely we were happy. In one home there is a small boy, very good, and very affectionate, whose mother can not receive a caller without the presence of the ubiquitous infant. He sits still, his great eyes fixed upon the face of the caller, and she feels ashamed for wishing that he would get out of the room. Occasionally he varies the monotony by saying, “Mother, don’t you want to tell Mrs. Blank about what I said the other day when I was hurt and did not cry?” Or, “Mother, do you think Mrs. Blank would like me to recite my new poem to her?”
This may be annoying, but it is still more pitiful. To talk so much to a child and of him in the presence of others that he is a poseur at the early age of five, is cruel to the little one himself. We frown on the old adage which declared “children should be seen and not heard,” but there are homes in which the guest wishes that they might be invisible as well as inaudible.
One mother defers constantly to her fourteen-year-old son, and allows him to be present during all chats she has with her friends. She says, “You do not mind Will, I am sure. You may say what you like where he is, for he is the soul of discretion, and I talk freely with him.” But the visitor does not feel the same confidence in “Will,” and certainly objects to expressing all her opinions with regard to people and things in his presence.
OTHER PEOPLE’S CHILDREN