John had the miles-away stare, while Alissa poured a wall of words to the next table’s occupants. He had probably heard it all before. While he couldn’t hit mute or change the station with some magic spouse remote control, he didn’t have to listen closely.

She wasn’t talking to him anyway. She was directing her word waterfall at Linda, the five-months pregnant woman eating at the next table. She suggested parenting websites and shared advice on where to find the best strollers at the lowest price. She even suggested the name of a villa in Italy they “had to visit” before they became parents because it was the perfect final trip for a family of two.

Linda’s husband, Victor, slowly ate his mahimahi, nodding the few times Alissa looked at him. This was a woman-to-woman conversation.

My son and I observed these couples we didn’t know from a bench outside a restaurant as we waited for our table.

What is it about expectant parents and newborn babies that turns so many people into authority figures on that unlicensed job known as parenting, dispensing free advice about what to expect, how to handle everything, what to buy and what lists to make?

When my wife was pregnant with our daughter and she walked around Manhattan, people used to go out of their way to find out if she was having a boy or a girl: “Oh, honey, you’re carrying more in your back, so it must be a girl.” Then these strangers would share their thoughts on the best place to buy clothing, the ideal kindergarten in the area and the things she should do to prepare for the baby’s arrival.

The positive side of all this unsolicited wisdom is that it shows that people have a sense of community: They want to help and they see a newborn and a new parent as people in need. Birds do it, too. I’ve heard that birds flying through a forest, minding their own business, will sometimes feed a hungry bird demanding food in a nest.

There is a magic that surrounds a new life. This small person inside the bigger person could become anything: a president, a senator, a doctor, an astronaut, a teacher. While this is all true, it’s also a time when adults make that abrupt transition from one world to another, when everything comes within the context of your role as a parent.

The downside of some of that advice is that it can be worth what we pay for it.

“Buy only pink clothes for your daughter, because she’ll wind up liking pink anyway.”

“Feed your son from the floor so he gets sick now and develops a stronger immune system.”

Once a baby is born, there are parents who absolutely know better and seem to see you as younger, nervous, anxious, inexperienced version of themselves. You are the comedy to their reality, the ridiculous to their rational and the neurotic to their well-balanced lifestyles.

“She’ll be fine going outside in 40 degrees in a T-shirt. Trust me, nothing bad will happen.”

As parents, we have every right to worry about whatever is important to us, to take whatever advice works for us and discard the rest.

There’s a kicker to the story about the couples at the restaurant. While sharing advice about parenting, Alissa sat next to her 2-year old daughter for close to half an hour. Not once did she speak to, or look at, her own little girl, who disappeared into a video game during the meal.

Parents giving parental advice are not always perfect themselves.

We don’t start at the top of a mountain, climb on a bicycle and coast to the bottom. That’s not how education works.

My daughter recently graduated from middle school. In a room packed with proud parents, school officials shared their observations of this “special” class.

One of the officials offered several stories. “I says,” he began, “that this is a great school.” “I says”? Really? “To fully understand the contribution this class makes to the community,” he continued. I know graduation isn’t about grammar, or is it? If school encourages students to learn, to push themselves and to work hard, it behooves these teachers and those who provide direction to provide a good example.

On our son’s previous report cards, teachers have written that he “reads a lot” and has “a lot of energy” and is “a lot of fun.” Hmm.

By the time teachers reach the end of a marking period, they have an enormous stack of papers to grade, a need to tally all the times their students were absent, and an administrative burden that takes them away from the front of the room, where they would otherwise have the opportunity to inspire and challenge.

These report cards are, perhaps, not the forum for aspiring writers to share a Dickensian turn of phrase or a Shakespearean allusion. And, yet, they are a way for teachers to spell out how our children are doing and indicate opportunities for growth.

My father-in-law has this incredibly amusing routine in which he discusses the modern-day little leaguer.
“Johnny gets up there, holds the bat all wrong, his knees knock into each other, he’s looking into the stands and he watches three straight-called strikes,” he says.

“He puts the bat down and goes back to the bench where the coach congratulates him on a good at-bat,” he continues.

“Good at-bat?” my father-in-law demands, his voice rising in sarcastic surprise. “Seriously? What exactly was good about it? You can convince little Johnny that he’s doing well, but I certainly wouldn’t.”

Harsh? Yes, of course. Inappropriate? Possibly. But, here’s the thing: Kids know when they’re moving forward, when they’re marking time and when they’re mailing it in, regardless of the sales and marketing job parents and teachers sometimes provide as they try to convince them that they’re “truly exceptional.”

Several years ago, I accompanied my daughter on a class field trip to the Bronx Zoo. On the way home, I sat next to a teacher I’d never met. She impressed not only with what she knew about the animals at the zoo, educational standards and American history, but with the way she expressed herself and with her ability to listen. When we returned from the bus ride, I told my wife I hoped our daughter would have the privilege of learning in this teacher’s class.

Two years later, my hope became a reality. Hearing that this teacher had a reputation for giving considerable amounts of homework, our daughter predicted it would be a “terrible year.” By the end of the first marking period, our daughter had adapted to the workload, planned every evening and threw herself into her studies.

She beamed at her teacher every time she saw her.

As I think back on that relatively short bus ride, I can’t help wondering how schools choose and then evaluate their teachers. Educators with the gift to connect, inspire and demand genuine effort from students can and should have the opportunity to help shape America’s future.

I’ve got a proposal for you. You write in and share the kinds of acts that reflect positive role models and I’ll share them with our readers.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve got bad news fatigue, reading headlines online and in newspapers about people doing all kinds of terrible things to strangers, neighbors and family members.

Every time an athlete, actor or politician does something embarrassing, awful or illegal, it becomes the talk of the town, triggering endless discussions about negative role models, driven by the pampered lives of those accustomed to living without boundaries.

We have become a culture of rubberneckers, watching the “gotcha” moments when reporters demand accountability from horrible landlords. We also watch shows like “America’s Funniest Home Videos,” where people routinely hurt themselves doing ill-advised activities, like jumping over something sharp on a skateboard.

Yes, of course, some of those “gotcha” moments can benefit us, helping us as we stay vigilant against the same kind of scams or illegal activities we don’t want to trick us. But what about recognizing and emulating those people who affect positive change and tap into a seemingly endless wellspring of energy to improve the community?

How about the person answering the phone who has a kind, supportive word for anyone who calls; the receptionist who remembers every patient who comes into a doctor’s office; or the crossing guard who holds a stop sign in the middle of the busy morning commute, demanding safety for every child and encouraging anxious kids on their way to classes.

As we approach the longest day of the year, I’d like to offer you a chance to celebrate the sunshine in our communities. It’s harder for newspapers to see the sort of random acts of kindness that people share every day. After all, the police have press conferences and updates whenever there’s a crime spree or when someone does something the public needs to know about so we can protect ourselves.

A friend of ours recently started battling serious health issues. His wife has been by his side, while his children continue to go about their daily routines, to the extent possible. They go to school, take tests and walk the dog. Once their friends learned about these challenges, they rallied around the family, signing up through an organization called Lotsa Helping Hands to help provide meals and share in the dog responsibilities. These are the sort of things people routinely do to make life better for each other.

We have role models throughout our community. My son’s teacher, for example, recently noticed that he earned a lower grade on a quiz than she was accustomed to seeing from him. He didn’t fail and it didn’t cause his grade to drop dramatically. Still, she didn’t write off the result as a bad day or chalk it up to adolescent distraction. Instead, she asked to speak with him for a moment after class, where she went over each of the areas where he lost points. I’m sure that happens regularly with teachers throughout the community, who encourage and support their students in a way that might one day ignite a successful career.

To offer a corollary to the Homeland Security slogan, I’d like to suggest that “If you see something great, say something.” People routinely go out of their way to make a world filled with challenges a better place. It’s often the small things that stay with us through the day, like the magic that comes from transforming a child’s anxious frown into a self-assured grin.