There are two rules about good table manners that were drilled into me as a child, and have stuck with me such that every time I break them (even when I’m alone) it makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong. They are:
1) No reading at the table.
2) No hats at the table.*
I have to admit that my frisson of guilt at reading at the table is probably spurious, because my mother was trying to keep us from reading at the table when there were other people there, and I only read when I’m having a meal alone. And in general, I agree with my mother’s theory that reading at the table when there are other people eating there is rather rude, and thus something that one ought not to do.
But the other day, Margaret hopped up in the big girl chair for some fish,** noticed that there was a book on the table, and discovered a whole new world of wonderful.
I thought about telling her that it was rude (and it was; she had insisted that I sit down with her, though I was having neither fish nor milk. I feel that in that situation, she has a responsibility to make polite conversation with me). But also I was very, very proud that books were important enough to her that she wanted to read at the table. And – her mother fondly hopes – she won’t limit her compulsive reading to books alone. I’m imagining a future of reading the ingredients off of cereal boxes (seriously, does anyone actually know what riboflavin is?), the fine print on junk mail, and whatever else there is lying around the table.
And so I let her read and ignore me.
On the bright side, she did include me in her reading by demanding, as soon as I out the camera down, that I read the book aloud to her. So there’s that.
*This rule is completely unimportant to this blog post. We have had no cause to impose any limits on Margaret’s hat-wearing.
**Which I gave her last week for the first time since she disdained them about a year ago. Let me just say that her attitude toward the goldfish cracker has altered radically. She is a big fan.
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