I HATE young children to address me by my first name.
It seems to be a habit among the people I know to call everyone John and Mary, no matter what the age difference.
It certainly isn't a Dutch custom, or wasn't when I grew up.
I consider myself old enough for youngsters to have some respect for me.
For instance, a visitor came the other day with a little girl who at length asked a second cup of tea.
"Mommy, may I have another cup of tea?"
"I don't know, dear - ask Luky."
"Luky, can I please have another cup of tea?"
Why Mommy but not Mrs Whittle? I can't see it.
A Little Respect
I even called my own husband Mr Whittle for nearly two years before I started calling him by his name.
My own children aren't overly respectful to their elders.
If they can get away with calling an older person by his name, they'll do so, especially my youngest, because her own brothers and sisters are so much older than she that she doesn't have that natural feeling of awe most of us grew up with.
But when I'm present they don't get away with it.
A little respect for one's elders has never harmed anyone.
Even if my husband never minded being called Sean, or more popularly Paddy, his children were far more respectful of him than they are of me.
He was rather short, though this never worried him unduly, as he confided to me once.
"In my heart I feel ten feet tall", and his personality more than made up for his lack of height.
When I brought my eldest son home from the hospital as a babv, and we were admiring him, his father said: "He's going to be a very tall boy."
Then he laughed.
"Just imagine, Ma, when he's fifteen and I'm laying down the law to him, I'll be shaking my finger up at him.
Then he'll look down sheepishly and answer: "Sorry, Dad."
Funny
To me it is a pantomime to see how differently the children treated him from the way they treat me.
I'm good old ma, the one you can take for a ride, mostly.
He was pa, the unpredictable keg of dynamite who on his own admission "doesn't give tuppence" whether the neighbours heard him yell when the children drove him too far.
One day something happened between my son and myself which I described to his father that evening.
His father called him in.
Prophecy fulfilled
"What would you do", his father asked, "if your mother died and someone were to tear up her photograph?"
"I'd fix him", my son said, glaring balefully at the very idea.
"Well, that's the way I feel now since your mother told me. . ." and my husband continued, confronting him with his misdeed.
Suddenly his prediction of 19 years before came true.
His son, fully a head taller than himself, sheepishly muttered: "Sorry, Dad."
Never one to push his advantage, his father moved off majestically.
Retort
But you can't keep a good man down.
No sooner had he closed the door than my eldest son turned on me.
"You traitor," he hissed, shaking his index finger under my nose, "you went and betrayed me to Dad after the way I trusted you.
Just for that I'll let them tear up your photograph."
He strode huffily from the room, careful to take a different direction from the one his father had chosen, as I collapsed on to the nearest chair, helpless with laughter.
No wonder they don't respect me.
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