When Did We Stop Teaching Kids How to Behave in Public?

I’ve written about this before, but this is really starting to piss me off. The other night in a crowded restaurant, a friend and I found ourselves dodging squeals, shrieks, climbing on the bar (yes, you read that right), and running around from toddlers who had turned the place into a playground. Grandparents and dad sat by, doing absolutely nothing but smiling indulgently – which made my blood boil – while the rest of us tried to eat through the noise. Many patrons were clearly annoyed. It got me thinking about how different things were when I was growing up.

I don’t mean to sound like the “back in my day” guy, but the contrast is stark. When our parents took us out, there were rules. We weren’t perfect — no kid is — but the boundaries were clear: you don’t scream, you don’t run around, you don’t nearly knock over the server walking by as she balances three plates full of food, and you don’t disrupt everyone else’s meal. If you did, there were consequences, and not just an eye roll from the next table.

My parents drilled it into us: being in public meant showing respect. We sat at the table until the meal was done. We spoke in voices that didn’t carry across the room. And yes, if we tested those limits, there were repercussions – now, and probably later. Some might call that harsh, but I’m grateful for it now. It taught us that other people’s comfort mattered too.

I’ll never forget when my parents were once told they could bring their kids (us) to Buckingham Palace, because we were so well behaved. That’s how seriously they took it, and how much pride they felt in raising children who could handle themselves anywhere.

So when did that change? When did the pendulum swing from “children must adapt to the space” to “the space must adapt to the children and the hell with everyone else”?

Some of it comes down to shifts in parenting styles. Discipline has become a loaded word. Many parents are reluctant to correct their kids in public, worried they’ll look too harsh or that setting firm boundaries will be seen as outdated. “Gentle” or “hands-off” parenting has its place, but when it translates to letting children run wild in restaurants, it’s everyone else who pays the price.

There’s also a cultural shift around customer service. In the past, if your kid acted out in public, you’d be embarrassed. Today, the expectation is flipped: the restaurant, the staff, the strangers around you – they’re the ones expected to tolerate whatever your kids are doing. That sense of shared responsibility for public spaces has eroded.

And then there’s social media. We’ve normalized “cute chaos” by posting videos of kids running amok in places they probably shouldn’t be. What used to be considered disruptive is now reframed as entertaining – but only for those behind the camera. For everyone else, it’s just noise and annoying as hell.

What gets lost in all of this is the lesson kids miss out on. Public manners aren’t about being uptight – they’re about learning how to share space respectfully. A child who knows how to sit through dinner without screaming is a child who will grow up understanding that their actions have an impact on others. That’s not just good etiquette; that’s basic citizenship.

I’m not calling for the return of wooden spoons or draconian discipline. However, I do think we’ve swung too far in the other direction. Kids need boundaries, and adults need to remember that letting children run wild in public isn’t doing them any favors. It just teaches them that rules don’t apply outside the home. And the parents and grandparents are even worse for allowing it to happen.

Restaurants, airplanes, theaters, and grocery stores are shared spaces. Everyone in them has a right to a baseline of peace. Teaching kids that isn’t punishment; it’s preparation for the real world.

So when I think back to the other night, to my friend and I in the far corner of the restaurant, trying to escape the shrieks, I can’t help but think we’ve lost something important. Somewhere along the way, the pride in raising well-behaved kids in public has given way to a shrug and a smile.

And frankly, I miss the days when parents cared enough to teach their kids that the world doesn’t revolve around them.

The Myth of Doing It All Before 7 a.m.

Scroll through LinkedIn or Facebook, and you’ll see no shortage of “rise and grind” posts. Someone is at the gym before 5 a.m., someone else has read a book, sent fifteen emails, meditated, cooked breakfast for their family, and outlined their daily goals – all before you’ve finished your first coffee. The message is clear: if you’re not doing as much as they are, as early as they are, you’re not successful.

But here’s a question I keep coming back to: how many people can really keep that pace up for years? My guess is very few.

Indeed, anyone can push through several months or a year of intense effort. I’ve done it. We’ve all had those bursts of adrenaline with big goals, the critical project, the “I’ll sleep later” phase. However, building a life around constant pre-dawn productivity requires more than just willpower. It requires sacrificing rest, relationships, and sometimes even one’s health. And even when people can sustain it for a while, the long-term cost usually shows up eventually.

What I suspect is that many of those “look at everything I do before 7 a.m.” every day posts are more about image than reality. Social media thrives on performance. You don’t post the mornings you say the hell with it, or the days when the weights feel too heavy, or the times your kids need you more than your planner does. You post the highlight reel. And after a while, even the people posting it start to confuse the performance with the truth.

That’s where the danger lies for the rest of us. We scroll, compare, and can feel behind. If they can do it, why can’t we? And the cycle of “more, more, more” spins up again. We forget that real productivity isn’t about squeezing more into the day – it’s about doing the right things with focus and energy.

The older I get, the less impressed I am with constant hustle and the more I respect sustainability and pacing.

Anyone can sprint, but few can run a marathon. And life is closer to a marathon. You can burn yourself out with two-hour 5 a.m. workouts and nonstop tasks, or you can find a rhythm that allows you to keep showing up day after day, year after year.

That’s why I keep circling back to the idea of enough. Enough doesn’t mean lazy. It doesn’t mean lacking ambition. It means you’ve chosen a pace you can live with, a standard that doesn’t eat you alive. It means you measure success not by how early your alarm clock goes off, but by whether your work and your life actually move in the direction you want them to.

So the next time you see a start at 5 a.m. “grind” post, take it with a grain of salt. Ask yourself not, “Why am I not doing all that?” and feel like a failure, but “Do I even want to live like that? Is it sustainable? Is it necessary?”

For me, the answer is no. My do-everything, all-the-time days are behind me. Now, progress looks like steady effort, healthy boundaries, and knowing when to take a break. Maybe that doesn’t make for a flashy social media post. But it does make for a life I can actually live.

A Dog in the Library

As I’ve written about before, libraries were once considered sacred. Whisper-only zones. The quietest public space you could find outside a soundproof room. You came in, grabbed your books, or settled down at a table, and the unspoken agreement was simple: silence. Respect the space and others. Respect the idea that not everything in life has to sound like a company cafeteria at lunch hour. However, it appears that the agreement has expired.

Okay, this one is partly on me because I forgot my noise-cancelling headphones. Still, I was already gritting my teeth the other day because the librarians themselves—yes, the very people who are supposed to protect the quiet—were talking as if they were catching up over brunch. Forget hushed tones and leaning in. You know, like you’re supposed to do in a library. No, this was regular conversation volume, ten feet from me and bouncing off the walls. Meanwhile, I’m trying to work, surrounded by the exact same people who would tell me to lower my voice if I dared to answer a call or not wear my earbuds during a conference call. The irony practically wrote itself.

And then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it happened.

A man walked into the library with a dog. Yes, a dog. Not a service dog, not a guide dog, not a dog with any visible vest or badge. Just a regular, everyday dog, padding along beside him like this was the park or his living room. I did a double-take. Surely, I thought, I must be imagining this. Surely the staff would step in. Surely there were rules, signs, something. Nope. He sat down with his dog. And, of course, because dogs do what dogs do, the animal started barking. Not yipping once, not a polite “ruff.” I mean barking loud enough that the very walls of this supposed sanctuary of silence rattled with every woof. I love dogs, but in a library? Come on!

I looked up, and our eyes met. And in that moment, I know my face said it all: You’ve got to be kidding me; what the hell are you doing? This is a library. I must have looked like I was about ready to climb over the table and toss him and his dog out myself, because he got the message. Without a word, he got up and left. And I sat there thinking, ‘What happened to reasoning?’ What happened to logical thinking, ‘If I bring a dog in here, what may happen, and am I even allowed to do so?’

I don’t bring my blender to the library. I don’t fire up a leaf blower next to the checkout desk. I don’t play music at ear-splitting volume. And I certainly don’t drag in a living, barking creature that has no business being there. Why? Because I respect the space and I understand the concept of a social contract. Because I know that my presence isn’t supposed to make everyone else’s experience worse.

But that is gone these days. Everything’s casual, everything’s “why not?” No boundaries, no rules, no common courtesy or common sense. People act like wherever they are is just another extension of their living room, and if anyone has a problem with it, well, that’s on them. The truth is, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. A barking dog in a library. Not a children’s story time, not a special event—just a regular day, with a regular guy, treating the library like a pet-friendly coffee shop.

So here’s my question: if the librarians can talk as loud as they want, kids don’t have to stick to the play area of the library but are allowed to run everywhere, while I’m reminded, with a sign, to use earbuds on video calls, and people can stroll in with their dogs, what’s next? Someone grilling hamburgers in the biography section? A guy flying a drone between the shelves? A rock band rehearsing for its next gig? At this rate, nothing would surprise me. 

I miss the old days when you could count on a library for peace. When the only sounds were pages turning, pencils scratching, and the occasional polite cough. Now, the soundtrack includes loud, hypocritical librarians, out-of-control kids, and the sharp bark of a dog echoing down the stacks.

You can’t make this stuff up.

The Danger of Always Doing More When Enough Is Actually Enough

This entry is the first in a two-part series. Part two will be published September 15.

I’ve been guilty of it more times than I can count. The nagging voice that says you could be doing more. More work, more hustle, more output, more proving yourself. It sneaks into my spiritual life, my business life, even my personal habits. And for a long time, I treated that voice like a tyrannical coach urging me forward. But I’ve come to realize something: always doing more isn’t discipline; rather, it’s a trap.

We live in a culture that glorifies being busy from dawn until well into the evening, yet simultaneously promotes the benefits of sleep, the consequences of sleep deprivation, and the importance of downtime. Suppose you’re not juggling nine projects at once, side hustling, reading twelve newsletters, listening to podcast after podcast, and somehow squeezing in a seven-mile run and an hour at the gym pre-dawn. In that case, according to some, you may be “falling behind” or “not getting ahead.” Which begs the question, who am I racing? It’s a competitive illusion. More doesn’t always mean better – it often just means exhausted.

I’ve seen this first-hand in my own career. There have been stretches when I said yes to everything: extra assignments, side gigs, volunteering, late nights chasing perfection. On the surface, it appeared to be productivity. Underneath, it was stress, burnout, and a creeping sense that I wasn’t actually happy. The irony is, the more I tried to do, the less satisfied I felt.

Why? Because “more” has no finish line. You don’t get to the end of the to-do list, exhale with relief, and declare victory. As soon as one thing is done, the mind rushes in with the next demand because the list never ends. It’s like being on a treadmill that speeds up every time you think you’re about to catch your breath. 

The real danger of always doing more is that it blinds you to what’s already enough. I’ve had moments where I realized the work I had done was good, the effort was sufficient, and the box was checked. But because I was conditioned to keep pushing, I robbed myself of the satisfaction of calling it finished. Instead of “done,” I defaulted to “what else?”

The shift for me has been learning to recognize “enough” as its own kind of success. Enough doesn’t mean lazy, or settling, or giving up. It means you’ve given what the moment requires, and you trust that it’s sufficient. For example, a solid, clean, factual story filed on deadline is enough. It doesn’t need another two hours of tinkering, another three quotes, or perfection to prove its worth. The work stands on its own.

In fact, the discipline of stopping is often more complicated than the discipline of grinding. Anyone can fill time with “more.” But to pause and look at what you’ve done and say, “this is enough,” that takes clarity and confidence. It means you’ve silenced the noise of comparison and the addiction to busyness long enough to stand on steady ground.

Most of us don’t need to add more. We need to subtract. We need to cut away the overthinking, the endless tweaking, the compulsion to prove ourselves by sheer volume while expecting perfection. What remains after the subtraction is focus. And focus, more than hustle, is what gets meaningful work done.

There’s freedom in embracing enough. It frees your energy to move on to the next task without dragging perfectionism behind you. It frees your mind to enjoy the present instead of being drawn to the next demand. And most importantly, it frees your spirit from the shame of feeling like you’re always behind.

So here’s my reminder to myself, and maybe to you: More isn’t always better. Sometimes, more is the very thing that steals joy from what you’ve already achieved. Enough isn’t a consolation prize; it’s the goal.

And today, in a world that constantly pushes us to do more, choosing “enough” might just be the boldest move of all.

Rant No. 13: The Chaos at Self-Checkout

Self-checkout was supposed to make shopping faster, easier, and more efficient. Supposed to. Instead, it’s become a full-contact sport, a test of patience, and a reminder that sometimes, technology makes life more complicated, not better.

First off, there’s the machine itself. You scan an item, and it yells at you like a cranky teacher: “Unexpected item in bagging area.” Really? The item I just scanned is now an “unexpected” item? What did you expect me to do — buy it and then juggle it in midair or punt it toward the exit? You remove the item, and it scolds you again. You put it back, and it’s the same thing. Before long, you’re trapped in a loop, arguing with a box of wires and sensors like it’s a stubborn toddler.

And then there’s produce. Scan a box of cereal, no problem. Scan bananas? Suddenly, you’re on a quest. Is it a “banana, organic,” “banana, regular,” “banana, Brazil,” or “banana, Guatemala”? You see images of every kind of fruit imaginable, desperately searching, while the line behind you starts to grow restless. By the time you find the right button, you’ve aged five years, and you’re wondering why you didn’t just go to the cashier like a normal person.

Self-checkout was always meant to be the modern-day express lane: ten items or fewer, quick in and out, no fuss. But somewhere along the line, people decided it was also the perfect place to unload a week’s worth of groceries for The Brady Bunch. Nothing slows down the system faster than watching someone with seventy-eight items in their cart try to scan and bag every last one while the machine has a meltdown over bagging space. “Excuse me, attendant. Can you help me lift this 50-pound bag of dog food so I can scan it?” Meanwhile, the rest of us with one lonely carton of milk are standing there, questioning our life choices.

And then there’s the aforementioned attendant. The one human left in this sea of machines. Their job is to swoop in with a key card every time the computer throws a tantrum – which is roughly every thirty seconds. Romaine lettuce purchase? Key card. Coupon scan? Key card. The machine froze because you dared to bring your reusable bags rather than purchase them so the store can make even more money? Key card. By the time you’re done, you’ve had more interaction with the attendant than you would’ve with a cashier in the first place. You know her so well now that you ask her if she has any dinner plans next Friday. 

Payment doesn’t make it any easier. Swipe your card the wrong way? Error. Does your debit chip have a microscopic scratch? Error. Tap too early? Error. Half the time, you’re standing there tapping, swiping, inserting, and praying to the retail gods for approval. When the screen finally flashes “Remove Card,” you feel like you’ve survived a major life event.

In theory, self-checkout was supposed to save time. In practice, it’s a gauntlet of flashing lights, shrill beeps, frozen screens, impatient crowds, and robotic voices scolding you for existing. The stress of getting through it makes you nostalgic for the days when a cashier rang you through, made small talk about the weather, and sent you on your way.

So yes, I still use self-checkout. But every time I do, I wonder if it’s worth the headache. Because self-checkout isn’t self-checkout at all, it’s self-doubt, self-loathing, and self-destruction – all rolled into one.

The Struggle With What Holds Us Together

It’s always struck me as strange — the very thing that holds me together is also the thing I wrestle with the most. For me, that’s my spiritual side. It grounds me, lifts me, and gives me perspective, and yet it’s been a struggle for twenty years.

I’ve asked myself countless times: Why would something so central to my well-being feel like a battle? Shouldn’t it be easy, natural, automatic? But I’ve come to realize the answer is simple: the things that matter most are often the hardest to maintain.

We don’t struggle with things that don’t matter. We don’t wrestle with things that don’t shape us. It’s the core pieces of our lives — faith, relationships, health — that demand the most effort and, often, the most patience. They’re also the places where setbacks sting the most, because we know how much is at stake.

For me, spirituality isn’t just a matter of belief; it’s a matter of survival. It’s the anchor I return to when everything else feels like it’s slipping. And maybe that’s why the struggle exists: because I know how much I need it. The enemy of my peace isn’t in the outside world; it’s in the small, daily choices of whether I show up, read, pray, attend, or drift. It’s also the battle in my mind that I must fight every day.

The struggle itself isn’t proof of failure. It’s proof that the fight is worth it. If something has held me together this long, even imperfectly, it deserves my persistence.

So yes, I wrestle with my spiritual side. But I also know it’s the very reason I’m still here to wrestle at all.

Rant No. 12: Menus I Can’t Read and Meals I Can’t Pronounce

Dining out is supposed to be simple: you sit down, look at the menu, order your food, and enjoy. But somewhere along the way, restaurants decided that clarity was boring and mystery was chic. Now, half the time I open a menu, I feel like I need a magnifying glass, a flashlight, and maybe a translator just to figure out what’s for dinner.

Let’s start with the fonts. Who decided that 8-point script, printed in gray ink on an off-white background, under candlelight, was a good idea? Yes, I’m getting older but I’m squinting so hard I look like I’m trying to crack a code. By the time I’ve deciphered the appetizers, my eyes are watering, and I’ve lost the will to eat.

And then there’s the dish names. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate international cuisine, but sometimes the menu reads like a foreign language exam. Am I ordering pasta or a Harry Potter spell? The server comes by and suddenly I’m rehearsing pronunciations in my head, only to panic and point at the menu with a sheepish, “I’ll have this one.” Nothing says confident diner like playing the world’s least exciting game of charades.

Even when the names are readable, the descriptions can get out of hand. I don’t need a novella about where the mushrooms were foraged or the emotional journey of the cow that became my steak. Just tell me what it is and why I should eat it.

A menu should make me hungry, not stressed. If I need reading glasses, Google Translate, and a deep breath before ordering, something has gone wrong. Restaurants, take note: food is the star. Keep the menu readable, pronounceable, and mercifully short. Trust me, your customers will thank you.

When Work Feels Like a Vacation

There’s something odd about working remotely and running your own show, especially when it’s something you love doing. I wrapped up my client(s) work early – not because I was rushing or watching the clock, but because I’d hit that sweet spot where the to-do list was done and my brain decided it had had enough for the day. I closed the laptop, stretched, and looked out the window toward the lake. It hit me: this feels like I’m on vacation.

The funny thing is, I’m not. There’s no suitcase in the corner. I haven’t booked time off. My inbox will still be waiting for me tomorrow morning. But there’s a certain magic in the way this place, and this way of working, blurs the lines between “work mode” and “holiday mode.” I think it’s a combination of factors, and they all work together in a way that’s hard to replicate in a traditional job setting.

First, there’s the lake itself. Whether it’s shimmering in the late-morning sun or lying still under a blanket of haze, it has that same effect as a beach scene on an Instagram post – an immediate lowering of the shoulders. You can’t look at water and not feel a little lighter. Even on the most demanding days, I can take a quick break, gaze out, and feel like I’ve stepped outside of the grind.

Then there’s the pace of life here. I’ve mentioned it before, but I now live in cottage country, where the pace is much slower than in the city. Remote work has stripped away so many of the daily irritations that eat into mental bandwidth. There’s no commute, no idling at traffic lights, no parking lot shuffles. I don’t have to set aside half an hour to find my car buried under snow in the winter or weave through construction detours in the summer. That time goes back into my day, and it shows up as a calmer rhythm. Oh, yes, I’m busy; sometimes I work until 8 p.m., but it’s just different because the next day I may shut it down at 2 p.m., something I couldn’t do in a corporate office. 

There’s also a different social tempo. I’m not dodging the office chatterbox or pretending to be busy while someone unloads the weekend’s drama. Here, “noise” is birdsong, a boat engine in the distance, or the slap of water against the shore.

Working in a place like this brings a sense of autonomy that’s impossible to overstate. When the day’s work is done, I’m not stuck in a cube, waiting for 5 p.m. to roll around. I can close the lid on the laptop and be outside in minutes. That shift from keyboard to shoreline is as immediate as walking from a hotel room to the beach on vacation.

The lack of a commute also changes the mental math. In the city, you finish work but still have that travel time before you’re “free.” Here, when I stop working, I’m already home. That extra time isn’t just more time – it’s better time. Time I can fill with something that recharges me instead of drains me.

The combination of the view, the pace, and the freedom creates something more powerful than all three on their own: a mindset shift. My brain doesn’t file “work” and “rest” into two rigid categories anymore. I can be productive and still feel relaxed, because my surroundings don’t scream hustle.

On vacation, part of the joy is that you’re somewhere designed for enjoyment;  a place that invites you to slow down. Here, I get to work from such a place every day. It doesn’t mean the deadlines aren’t real or that the work doesn’t matter; it means the environment is working with me, rather than against me.

Of course, it’s not perfect. There are still foggy Mondays when the brain takes a little more coaxing to kick into gear. There are still moments of frustration, internet outages that sometimes occur in small towns, and the occasional burst of noise from the outside world. And when I do wrap up before the traditional end of the workday, having met all my deadlines, I sometimes feel anxious – as if I am somehow cheating and should be doing more, working until 5 p.m. But even on those days, the balance tips toward peace instead of pressure. And that’s probably why this feeling, this odd sense of being “away” while staying put, happens. It’s not that I’ve tricked myself into thinking I’m on vacation; it’s that I’ve built a routine and a location that give me the parts of vacation that matter most: the change of pace, the environment, the space to breathe.

I think this is the hidden perk of remote work that doesn’t get talked about as much. We hear about flexibility and cost savings, about avoiding commutes and having more time for family. But there’s also this quieter, subtler benefit: the ability to create a life where work doesn’t feel like a daily grind, and where the good parts of “time off” sneak into your everyday.

And on a beautiful day like this, with the lake just outside and the workday behind me, it’s easy to believe that maybe I’ve figured out a way to carry a little vacation with me all year long. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading outdoors for a nature walk – right outside my door. 

Rant No. 11: The Eater-on-the-Phone (and the Table Texter)

It’s Tuesday, so it’s time for another rant. Let’s talk about something that probably drives you up the wall, too, and that is getting a phone call from someone who’s clearly eating while they’re talking. I’m talking about the full soundscape: the slurping, the chewing, the lip-smacking, the crunching of chips, or the scraping/clanking of a fork against a plate. It’s like I’m being invited to a dinner theater production of “Gross Table Manners: The Musical.”

I know we’re all busy, but if you’re calling me, I’d like the courtesy of your actual attention. Finish your meal, wipe your mouth, and then give me a ring. I’m not your dinner guest. I didn’t sign up for the sound effects. And while I’m at it, let’s talk about lunch meetings. If you invited me out, presumably because you wanted to catch up or discuss something important, put the phone away. Nothing says “you’re not that important” like watching you answer texts, take calls, and generally ignore me while I’m trying to have a conversation with you.

It’s simple: If you’re eating, call me later. If we’re at lunch, let’s actually have lunch. Otherwise, just send me a calendar invite to listen to you chew and watch you scroll your social media feeds. And if you can’t give me your full attention for five minutes, because, after all, you invited me, do us both a favor and eat your lunch alone, and let me get back to enjoying my day.

You Can’t Make This Stuff Up: The Musical Chairs Brigade

It’s Monday and like most people, I’m grinding my way through it with a series of video calls followed by plenty of writing. I start getting antsy, and with the library closed on Mondays, I head to the hangout, as I call it. Thankfully, it is quiet. The sun is shining, and the restaurant is humming along with that deceptively calm “we’ve got this” vibe. Well, almost. Here comes a group of eight that will be a problem table for whoever serves them.

Now, you’d think eight people finding one table big enough for them would be an accomplishment in itself. But no. This group decided to make seating arrangements the main entertainment of the day.

First table? Nah, not good enough for them. Too drafty. Too close to the kitchen. Too… something. Loudly, they gather their drinks and shuffle over to a second table. Servers exchange knowing glances — yep, it’s going to be that kind of day.

Then the server approaches, ready to finally take an order, and suddenly, the group wants to sit outside. Never mind that it’s prime time, the patio is packed, and there’s not a table in sight. They’re shocked — shocked! — that this is somehow not possible. So now you’ve got eight adults pouting like kids denied recess, while the server is silently calculating how much of their life they’ll never get back. Then, get this, they tell the server that four can sit outside and the rest are okay sitting inside. The server walks by me unleashing profanities under her breath. Now, normally I don’t like hearing that kind of language but in this case, I totally get it. Oh, we’re not done yet, they then decide, no, we’d all like to sit outside when a table opens up. There are different servers for inside and outside so now inside server has to check with outside server if she wouldn’t mind taking an extra table in the unopened section. Outside server sighs with resignation. Yeah, sure.

Picture it: a herd of indecisive diners treating the restaurant like a giant game of musical chairs. Servers-are-about-to-kill-them section? Also yes. Because while everyone else is trying not to laugh at the absurdity while feeling sorry for the servers, the servers are quietly asking themselves, “Why didn’t I just go to law school?”