"Mother, may I?" sounds like an appropriate children's game for this month. Maybe you remember taking baby steps, medium steps, giant steps, scissor steps, bunny hops and others to try to be the first to touch the "mother," with her back turned. A requirement, of course, was that you had to say, "Mother, may I?" before you made a move.

The name of the game also reminds me of indoor school activities connected with the word "may." In the classroom, recreation wasn't the emphasis, but there was a relaxing touch of humor shared by teacher and students. Maybe it wasn't quite as amusing for anyone who happened to ask the wrong question without considering the grammatical implications, but I'm sure the teacher wanted to help us learn also from our mistakes.

The prerequisite was that the teacher had already reviewed with us the proper uses of "may" and "can." She’d go through examples so we'd understand the difference. We'd practice using "may" to ask for permission. We'd also make up sentences using "can." Then we did worksheets or related pages in a workbook, filling in the blanks with "may" or "can" to use those words correctly in writing.

The amusing incidents could happen any time after that, or even during the initial practice – the sooner, the better, while the lesson was fresh in our minds. A child preoccupied with thirst – or in search of an excuse to leave the classroom – might ask, "Can I get a drink?"

It was a student's version of "Open mouth, insert foot." The teacher, perhaps suppressing a smile, might reply with emphasis, "I’m sure you can, and yes, you may." Or the teacher might repeat the question with an inflection designed to point out the part that needed improvement: "Can you get a drink?" I think we usually caught on, after a little fidgeting perhaps, and I suppose we were more likely to remember the proper usage after that.

More recently, I've noticed a different way to (mis)use the word "can" in questions. Grammatical technicalities aside, I've more or less enjoyed it. I think most people understand what's happening, so the language works, even if it's not perfect. At first, I smiled at the literal messages conveyed. Then I noticed how capable I felt when someone phrased a request this way: "Can you give me two copies"; "Can you make this fill the space"; "Can you do several versions."

In written form, there usually isn't a question mark, because it usually isn't a question. In most cases, the people aren't asking if I know how. They wouldn't be presenting the task to me if I weren't able to comply. It's more likely to be a work request, but the person doesn't want to be too demanding or too formal.

There are many possible ways to state the same request, of course: "I need to have two of these right away"; "Print out two of the attached. Put them on my desk ASAP"; "Make two copies, will you please?" Maybe none of the above has exactly the right tone for the situation, and the person settles on an informal, "Can you..."

So I make two copies, feeling capable instead of being annoyed at the additional task. Yes, I can do it. That feels good.

The satisfaction in being able to do the job increases if the request is for a more difficult task: "Can you match this sample"; "Can you get this done by Friday."

There's a limit, of course. Pride complicates the issue, too, if I waste time fumbling around with a job I really don't know how to do on my own, in a vain attempt to prove that I can.

Back to the grade school classroom, I think of the book called, "The Little Engine That Could." After other engines turned down the job, the little engine that had never been over the mountain gave it a try, and the story rolled along to the refrain, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can."

In real life, children usually need to have permission for many activities that adults do without asking anyone first. "May I?" is a gateway through certain protective barriers. As a child's abilities increase – as his "I can..." list grows longer – he's also allowed to do more. "I can" and "I may" go together.

There's satisfaction in what we're allowed to do and in what we're able to do, but both are subject to change.

As life goes along, the question gradually shifts from "Can I?" to "May I?" and back to "Can I?" A child who likes the train engine story probably doesn’t read all the books his parents do. He has some learning and maturing to do first. Eventually he knows how and is free from parental restrictions, but in later years the question sometimes changes to, "Can I read this book?" – or do I have to get my glasses first, or possibly wait until after cataract surgery.

A child asks, "Mother, may I?" before he goes across the street to play with friends. Years down the road, the question is whether he can – whether his legs are up to the journey.

"May" is a pleasant word. It's polite and well-bred. Still, there's a more fundamental satisfaction in doing things that we can. "Yes, you may," is one step forward. "Yes, I can," is another step, a giant step over the mountain.