It was my fault we were rushed. My four-year-old son was on Spring Break from preschool and, not being on our regular schedule, I lost track of time. Suddenly, I realized we had minutes to get out the door for an appointment.

Was my son still in his pajamas? At 3:15 in the afternoon? Yes. Yes he was. We do Spring Break right in our house. Except when don’t, because we fail to give ourselves enough time to prepare for a timely departure. By “we,” I mean me. And by “ourselves,” I mean myself. I am the designated adult in this scenario.

I unceremoniously switched off PJ Masks (if you don’t know what that is, count your blessings and move on) and started barking out orders to put down toys and put on clothes. As all parents know, this is a highly effective strategy for managing small children. They respond beautifully to this approach. They care deeply about punctuality, and frantic rushing always produces the desired result.

Parent: “Get dressed right now! We are LATE!”

Child: “Oh, I understand. Let me put down this fun toy and focus on the task at hand. Anything you choose for me to wear will be perfectly acceptable. Let me be as cooperative as possible to compensate for your lack of time management skills.”

If only. I expected my son to care that we were late, which was totally irrational because he doesn’t actually comprehend the meaning of the word “late.” I know this, because I’ve asked him.

It was, of course, a shitshow. I struggled to control my frustration. The more I tried to impose my will and wrestle him into his clothes, the more he resisted.

Finally, he was dressed and we left the house.

In the car, I talked to him about what had just transpired. I was on a roll, being all kinds of parental. Laying down the law. “When I tell you to do something, you do it.” And so on. He started to say something. I cut him off.

“I am talking. You can talk when I’m finished.”

When I was done talking, I said “Okay, what did you have to say about not getting dressed?”

I was feeling a little smug and magnanimous. Such a progressive parent I am, giving the child an opportunity to express himself. This is, after all a benevolent dictatorship.

“Well, Mommy, what I had to say is…you didn’t say ‘please.’”

“What?”

“You didn’t say ‘please.’”

Dammit. I went over the scene in my head. He was right. Not once did I say “please.” We were late – my own fault – and I started issuing orders.

There is merit to the argument that he’s the child and I’m the parent and he should do what I say, when I say, period. But he’s also a person. And I’m a person. I don’t want someone to abruptly insist I stop doing the fun thing I’m doing, immediately switch gears, and do a not fun thing, just because they can’t tell time. If I want to raise him to be a considerate person, isn’t it incumbent upon me to treat him with consideration?

I said, “You’re right. I didn’t say ‘please.’ If I had said ‘please,’ would you have gotten dressed?”

His response was clear and firm: “Yes.”

I said okay and let it go. I was skeptical, but it was time to move on.

The next day, I had an opportunity to test the hypothesis. I said ‘please.’ He looked at me with an obvious flash of recognition, and quickly complied with my request. It was clear he knew I’d heard him.

I know saying “please” won’t always work. I seriously doubt it will even work most of the time. Still, it seems to me that, as a general life rule, “please” is a good place to start.

Sometimes, we get so caught up in the intensity or stress of a moment that we forget the basics.

Ask instead of tell.

Listen.

Say “please.”