Four-year-old Knox knew exactly where he was not supposed to go.

The fact is we all knew. Every last one of us sitting outside on the coffee shop's patio earlier this month saw Knox's mom, my friend Kim, point to a patch of flowers growing under the tree.

We all heard her say, "Knox, you stay out of there."

Knox heard it, too, but that didn't mean both of us weren't in for a lesson.

At first, he just batted long lashes that threw spidery shadows onto his cheeks. Then he turned his head and cast an uninterested glance toward the flowers. Their only protection was an itty-bitty loop of wrought iron, a skimpy excuse for a fence that makes dogs and farmers laugh.

Knox raised the foot-long toy ladder he was carrying, aimed at the flowers, and let go a few shots:

Choo. Choo. Choo.

He might have left it at that if the 4-year-old girl hadn't shown up. Blond curls everywhere on her little head, which turned at the first choo .

She took one look at the ladder-wielding Knox and hopped right off her daddy's lap. She walked straight to the tree and, wouldn't you know it, stepped right over that tiny fence.

Then she turned toward Knox and smiled.

Adam, meet Eve.

Within seconds, Knox was standing nose to nose in the garden with his newfound friend, his ladder aimed politely to the ground so as not to accidentally shoot her.

I'm no snitch, but I couldn't stop grinning as I watched the little people chat. What do 4-year-olds say to each other when we're not listening? You have to wonder.

Unfortunately for Knox, I was sitting right next to his mother, who took one look at my smiling face and turned to find her son doing exactly what she had told him not to do.

Kim did not yell. Didn't even frown. She simply said, "Knox."

Out he hopped.

Then he walked over to his mother, and she fluffed his hair.

"I love when you listen to Mommy," she said. "Thanks for coming back."

To my grown children: Sorry, sorry, sorry. I yelled too much.

In my defense, all I remember from back then is child expert Haim Ginott saying something about letting you bounce the ball one more time after I told you to stop. You have to admit; I had that one down .

Anyway.

Two days later, I read a story in The New York Times titled "It's Not Discipline, It's a Teachable Moment," by Tara Parker-Pope. What struck me about the article was the notion that celebrating the good, rather than chewing out the bad, is often the best way to teach children how to behave.

This method of parenting, though, requires a lot of vigilance from today's busy and easily distractible moms and dads. Too often, it's the kids who are paying attention.

"Children," wrote Parker-Pope, "quickly learn that it's much easier to capture a parent's attention with bad behavior than with good. Parents unwittingly reinforce this by getting on the phone, sending e-mail messages or reading the paper as soon as a child starts playing quietly, and by stopping the activity and scolding the child when he starts to misbehave."

After reading the story, I couldn't help but think of Kim and what I've noticed about her parenting in the three years I've known her. She is a full-speed-ahead career woman in Washington, D.C., but whenever she is with Knox, she is only one thing: Knox's mommy. She may stop and chat with friends, but he is never far from her sight, and she is never on the cell phone or checking messages on her BlackBerry.

She also regularly tells him something she likes about him, which I think is why he's the kind of kid I like to hang out with, too.

That doesn't mean he's always keen on me. He's 4, and I'm not, and sometimes he just has to aim his little ladder at me:

Choo. Choo. Choo.

Cupid's arrows to my heart, I swear.

Connie Schultz is a Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist for The Plain Dealer in Cleveland and the author of two books from Random House: "Life Happens" and "… and His Lovely Wife." To find out more about Connie Schultz (cschultz@plaind.com) and read her past columns, please visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

COPYRIGHT 2008 CREATORS SYNDICATE INC.