I’ve been thinking about something lately.
There seems to be a rise in student misbehavior at school. More parent complaints about incidents. More short tempers. Less tolerance. Fewer boundaries. Less resilience. And, apparently, a growing number of bipeds of all ages who can eat an entire meal, conduct a social gathering, complete a work assignment, and then simply walk away from the resulting archaeological dig they have left behind.
Trash on tables.
Trash on floors.
Trash next to trash cans.
Food containers abandoned approximately three feet from the receptacle, apparently because that was the final distance the expedition could travel.
And before anyone gets offended, I’m not talking exclusively about children.
Adults, too.
We have somehow become a species that needs a reminder that if you make a mess, you clean it up.
So here’s my two cents: we may have accidentally, by design, stopped teaching kids how to be people.
I wonder how much of what we’re seeing is connected to something much more basic: what children are expected to do—and not do—during their formative years.
Kindergarten and early elementary school aren’t just about learning letters, numbers, and whether a triangle has three sides. They’re where children begin learning how to function in a world that does not revolve entirely around their immediate wants.
They learn routines.
They learn that sometimes you have to wait.
They learn that other people exist.
They learn that there are rules.
They learn that rules occasionally apply even when you don’t particularly care for them.
They learn to sit still for a few minutes.
They learn to listen.
They learn to finish something before moving on to the next shiny object.
And, hopefully, they learn that when you dump twenty-seven crayons onto the floor, someone expects you to pick up twenty-seven crayons.
At home, chores reinforce the same lesson.
Not because washing dishes is going to prepare a child for the SAT.
It won’t.
But because chores quietly teach something much more important:
You are part of this household. Therefore, you contribute to it.
You don’t have to enjoy taking out the trash.
You don’t have to feel “called” to put your laundry away.
You don’t need a five-point PowerPoint presentation explaining why your plate should make its way from the table to the sink.
You just do it.
Because that’s what people do.
And then there is the increasingly endangered concept of unstructured play. The kind where adults aren’t hovering over every minute.
Where kids figure things out.
Where someone gets bored.
Where someone gets excluded.
Where someone has to negotiate.
Where somebody gets mad.
Where somebody loses.
Where somebody eventually figures out how to get back into the game.
There isn’t an app for that. There isn’t a participation certificate. There isn’t an adult immediately stepping in to adjudicate every disagreement like the Supreme Court of the Backyard.
Kids playing without constant adult intervention have opportunities to develop negotiation, creativity, problem-solving, cooperation, independence, and—perhaps most importantly—the ability to tolerate a little discomfort without immediately falling apart.
Sometimes you lose.
Sometimes your friend won’t play the game you want.
Sometimes your fort collapses.
Sometimes you’re bored.
And sometimes, remarkably, nothing happens.
And that’s okay.
Which brings me to the part where everyone is going to think I’ve finally lost it:
Penmanship.
Yes.
Penmanship.
I can hear it now.
“Penmanship? What does handwriting have to do with behavior?”
Bear with me.
I’m not suggesting that the decline of cursive writing caused the decline of civilization. Although if society collapses because nobody can read Grandma’s recipe card, I reserve the right to say I told you so.
I’m talking about what penmanship required.
Sit down.
Pay attention.
Control your movements.
Slow down.
Form the letters correctly.
Stay within the lines.
Accept correction.
Try again.
Take your time.
Produce something neat.
And do it even though you’d really rather be doing something else.
That’s not merely handwriting.
That’s practice in self-regulation.
It’s practice in patience.
It’s practice in persistence.
It’s practice in accepting that the first attempt isn’t always good enough.
And it’s practice in understanding that doing something properly sometimes takes longer than doing it quickly. We’ve gradually eliminated a lot of these little daily opportunities to practice those skills. We’ve made childhood more structured in some ways and less structured in others.
More supervised, yet sometimes less disciplined.
More scheduled, yet sometimes less routine.
More connected, yet sometimes less socially resilient.
More technologically capable, yet sometimes less comfortable with boredom.
And perhaps we’ve become so concerned with preventing children from experiencing frustration that we haven’t given them enough opportunities to learn that frustration is survivable.
That doesn’t mean we need to return to some mythical golden age when children spent twelve hours outside, drank from garden hoses, came home when the streetlights came on, and somehow all became Supreme Court justices.
There were plenty of things wrong with the past.
But there were also some wonderfully ordinary things that taught children how to function.
Chores.
Routines.
Boundaries.
Unstructured play.
Responsibility.
Consequences.
Practice.
Patience.
And yes…
Penmanship.
None of these things, by themselves, are going to produce a perfectly behaved child. People aren’t machines. Children will still test limits.
They will still argue. They will still make messes. They will still occasionally look you directly in the eye while doing precisely the thing you just told them not to do.
That’s childhood.
But perhaps we should stop looking at each of these behaviors as isolated problems.
Maybe the kid who can’t tolerate being corrected, can’t handle losing, can’t sit still, won’t clean up after himself, and blows up when he doesn’t get his way isn’t suffering from six unrelated problems.
Maybe he’s simply had too little practice doing things that are difficult, boring, inconvenient, frustrating, or not entirely about him.
And maybe that’s where the adults come in. Not to eliminate every obstacle. Not to negotiate every consequence. Not to rescue children from every uncomfortable feeling. But to give them opportunities to practice being responsible human beings.
Give them a routine.
Give them a chore.
Give them some boundaries.
Let them get bored.
Let them play.
Let them lose.
Let them make mistakes.
Make them clean up their mess.
Teach them to stick with something.
And, every now and then… Hand them a pencil.
Tell them to slow down.
And ask them to write something neatly. Because maybe the point was never really the handwriting. Maybe it was everything the handwriting was quietly teaching along the way.
One last thing; maybe there is one more piece to this puzzle.
Manners.
Not etiquette in the fancy sense. Not which fork to use at a dinner party or whether your napkin belongs on your lap. I mean the ordinary stuff.
Please.
Thank you.
Excuse me.
Wait your turn.
Don’t interrupt.
Say hello.
Say goodbye.
Hold the door.
Pick up after yourself.
Pay attention when someone is speaking to you.
Treat the person in front of you as though they actually matter.
Manners were traditionally taught at home, reinforced at school, and held accountable for in society. There was a continuity to it. Home taught you the expectation. School reminded you of the expectation. And eventually, society expected you to know better. It wasn’t about making children artificially polite. It was about teaching them a fundamental truth:
You are not the only person in the world.
Other people have space.
Other people have feelings.
Other people have time.
Other people have rights.
And sometimes, their needs come before yours. That’s not an outdated concept. That’s civilization.
And there is another little word worth teaching children early:
No.
“No” is a complete sentence.
It does not necessarily require an explanation, negotiation, justification, or ten-minute PowerPoint presentation.
Sometimes no simply means no.
Learning to hear it is part of learning boundaries. Learning to say it respectfully is part of learning boundaries, too.
Maybe that’s what connects all of this—chores, routines, boundaries, unstructured play, resilience, responsibility, even something as seemingly insignificant as penmanship.
They’re all little exercises in learning that we live among other people.
You don’t always get your way.
You don’t always get to go first.
You don’t always get to say what you want, when you want.
Sometimes you have to wait.
Sometimes you have to try again.
Sometimes you have to clean up your own mess.
Sometimes you have to lose.
Sometimes you have to listen.
Sometimes you have to accept “no.”
And sometimes you simply need to say:
“Excuse me.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry.”
Three remarkably simple phrases.
And perhaps one remarkably simple word.
No.
Maybe raising resilient, responsible, considerate human beings was never about finding the perfect curriculum, the perfect technology, or the perfect parenting philosophy. Maybe it was always about giving children enough opportunities to practice being human.
And then expecting them to do it.
This doesn’t require any special technology. It doesn’t require a specialized curriculum or advanced training.
Just a spine.
And a little patience.
And maybe—just maybe—a cup of coffee, an adult beverage, and another friendly biped who is experiencing the exact same thing. Because sometimes, apparently, raising human beings requires a village.
And occasionally, that village needs a drink.
There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com.
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© 2026 Mariano Velez ~ InkBlotz Press
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