Lies I Told My Children

I am fine with a good lie. Little falsehoods are how we smooth out the bumps of being human, and the unvarnished "truth" is the hallmark of the passive-aggressive jerk and the sociopath. But there are rules. Like the Hippocratic oath, first, do no harm. You shouldn't get away with lying that would get you jail time in the outside world. And keep it simple, because the more byzantine you get, the harder it is to uphold. From a skills perspective, remember Emily Dickinson's advice, "tell the truth, but tell it slant." In terms of fallout, don't be a weasel: own up to your lies. Be ready with a reasonable rationale. However, for parents, there really isn't a statute of limitations, so you can be a weasel for a while, as long as you out yourself good-naturedly in good time. I fessed up to the following about six years after it takes place.

The biggest lie I told my children was the now infamous "Grocery Store Lie." This lasted half a decade, until it was destroyed accidentally, and was of no use any more. The Grocery Store Lie was a defensive lie, as the shopping experience is one where the weight of all the power of the marketing industry burdens the tiny shoulders of your child, and you are responsible for somehow relieving them.

Prima was a bright, intelligent child, an advertiser's dream, and she was captivated by the omnipresent, attractive candy that rises like bonbon shrubbery tunnelling the checkout counter at the grocery store. It is cunningly and deliberately placed within the arm reach of the average-sized two-year-old. I didn't forbid sweets, but there was a time and a place, and it was not going to be a debate every trip to the store.

My first defense against the checkout was the salad bar. After getting groceries as quickly as humanly possible, I'd wheel up to the salad bar, get tiny containers that are meant for salad dressing, and Prima and I, and later Penny, would carefully discuss and choose grapes, blueberries, small chunks of melons and so on, for a "special snack."

When we reached the checkout gauntlet, I didn't avoid the candy or try to look the other way. To the contrary, we took our time. Everything there must be for decoration. And wasn't it all beautiful? Bright colors, interesting shapes, and big-print words. How lovely it was of the store to dress up the register with all these pretty things! Gosh, how many colors could we name? Tons!

Smart cashiers enjoyed this exchange. Dim ones, the ones who tried to correct my obvious mistake, I talked over. Here's your special snack! Remember which one is yours? Right! The one with five blueberries! Let's count them: one, two, three, four, five!

This one-act play ran at our local grocery theater every week for five whole years. Until my sister came to visit. Auntie Eyeball (a story for another time) took my oldest with her into the store while I waited with the little ones in the car. And lo, it came to pass, that grocery paradise was lost. "Mama! I got decorations! It's real candy! Auntie Eyeball bought me candy at the store! If you ask them, they'll sell it to you and you can buy it!" Prima shrieked while she danced the parking lot dance of a kindergartner hopped up on M&Ms. Penny and baby Treya howled in excitement. My sister looked like she had just had a revelation, too late, too late.

The only thing left to do was my final performance, the one where I exclaimed, "Oh. My. God. That's absolutely incredible! They let you buy the decorations? That's the most amazing thing I have ever heard! I cannot believe it!" Then I turned to my sister and shouted, "This Changes Everything!"