When I was in high school, in the '80s, I played keyboard in a ramshackle surf-punk quintet called the No-Tones. Our rehearsals took place in a garage belonging to Dr. Cuccia, a dentist who happened to be the father of the drummer and the lead guitarist. We had a manager, whom I'll call Zippy, and one evening, just as Dr. Cuccia was passing through his carport after a hard day of filling cavities and excavating gums, Zippy welcomed him home by blurting out the following salaam: "How's it shakin', Mr. C?!"

Dr. Cuccia's jaw clenched. His face took on the expression of someone who'd just ingested a glob of wasabi. "Zippy," he said, "whenever you are under my roof, you will always refer to me as 'Dr. Cuccia.' Do I make myself clear?"

I was overcome with respect for Dr. Cuccia at that moment—for his blunt reassertion of authority in the face of teen-brat insouciance—and I've thought about the episode a lot lately. I've thought about it because now that I'm the father of two kids, I'm not too psyched about the way their playdate companions address me.

What they call me, without fail, regardless of the circumstances, is Jeff.

And it's not just "Jeff," mind you, but "Jeff, gimme more pizza!" and "Jeff, we wanna watch Dora!" Sometimes I work at home, and it's jarring for me to wander down from my office and encounter a playroom full of gremlins who greet me, in chorale fashion, by my first name. The assumption is that I'm okay with this. I'm an open-minded, forward-thinking parent, right? I listen to Arcade Fire and read naughty Nicholson Baker novels on the commuter train. I'm not supposed to give a hoot about anachronistic modes of cross-generational discourse.

But this Jeff business—frankly, it bugs the bleep out of me. Like honey mustard and Don Henley's solo work, it strikes me as one of those icky hangovers from the baby-boomer bacchanal: Sometime after the Summer of Love, America decided that only squares used oppressive honorifics like "Mr." and "Mrs."

But I miss them. I want to bring "Mr." back. I don't think kindergartners should be getting overly casual with me. I am enough of a fuddy-duddy to believe that kids are still kids, which means that they don't work as hard as I do, which means that they should at least pretend to treat me with respect. It's too late to stop this nationwide erosion of common courtesy, but all revolutions begin at home, which is why I, quixotically, have decided to take a stand. From now on, kids of America, consider yourself warned: After your sixth birthday, you can no longer call me Jeff. And if I ever hear you referring to me as "Mr. G.," I'm putting honey mustard on your pizza.