Respect your elders is one of my favorite maxims these days. Not that you’d know it from the level of parent-child discourse in my house.

My husband and I find ourselves in a battle of attrition against the “whatever” rejoinder. Did I mention it’s coming from the mouth of a 5-year-old?

Us: “If you don’t fish out the dirty underwear you’ve stuffed between your bed and the wall, there won’t be any bedtime book tonight!”

Him: “Whatever.”

He tacks on the requisite eye-roll. This despite the fact that he lives for his bedtime story – most recently the latest Magic Tree House installment featuring Annie and Jack wending their way through the pyramids or fending off ninjas.

His 3-year-old sister delights in pointedly doing the opposite of what she’s requested to do.

Us: “Go upstairs and put on a long-sleeve shirt. It’s cold out today.”

Five minutes later, she prances downstairs in a strappy, princess-emblazoned tank top, then rubs it in, spoiling for a fight.

“I didn’t listen to you,” she triumphantly declares.

Whatever.

Their sauciness is what my grandma would have termed “fresh.” I don’t think anyone uses that word anymore in a context unrelated to fruits or vegetables.

Sometimes, the back talk makes me laugh. It’s unbearably cute when my daughter stomps a Mary Janed foot the size of an ice cream sandwich. My husband flashes me the evil eye.

Sometimes, it makes me really angry.

Shouldn’t they know better?

Not really. They’re just little kids. They’re learning.

Not so for the unbelievably rude grandma I encountered recently at an author visit at Quail Ridge Books in Raleigh.

Mo Willems of “Knuffle Bunny” and the bug-eyed pigeon series, was in town. He was at the bookstore to unveil his latest book, “The Pigeon Wants a Puppy.”

Judging from the turnout, Mo’s a pretty popular children’s author. The term “rug rats” took on enhanced meaning. Kids were everywhere, crammed onto the carpet, wedged next to the grown-ups who’d brought them.

My two older kids in tow, I spotted an empty square inch of space. I said, “Excuse me” to the woman I was about to step over. She didn’t budge.

“Excuse me,” I repeated.

She glanced my way and ignored me.

I tried a third time.

“Excuse me; I’m trying to get by.”

“There’s no room,” she told me.

I pointed out the spot I coveted. She told me I’d need to ask her grandson to move.

So I did – “Sir,” I said, “we need to get around you.” He was oblivious.

Disgusted, I stepped right over the kid. He’s lucky I didn’t step on him. Maybe one of my kids did.

I’m no goody two shoes, but I was astounded by the woman’s lack of courtesy. My children witnessed the whole bizarre exchange.

Kids are always watching, always listening. That is one reason why my daughter has in her lexicon the term “damn it.” At least she uses it in context.

On this afternoon, I had to explain to them that sometimes, even though you’re polite, others aren’t.

(Mo Willems was no paragon of politeness himself, obnoxiously blowing off kids’ questions about being an author. But that’s another story.)

Not one to keep my mouth shut, I couldn’t resist confronting the woman as the reading drew to a close.

As I breezed past her and her grandson, I stopped and looked her in the eye. “You know,” I said, “being rude to other people is no way to set an example.”

Elders, it turns out, might not always deserve respect.