The Virtues of the Lying Parent
You’re a good parent, right? You don’t have a criminal record. You teach your kids the right values: not to point at people, no matter how ridiculous they might look with their hair died pink and purple. You tell them never to push old ladies, even if the old lady in the store just cut in front of you when the line is backed up all the way to frozen goods. And when someone cuts you off in traffic, you have shown, by your own virtuous example, not to swear (too loudly) or to retaliate with rude gestures (above the level of visibility). You have taught your kids that the speed limit is the law, and that “limit” means the uppermost allowable speed, and out of respect for law, order, truth, justice, peace, harmony, and all that, you will not drive faster than that unless you or the drivers around you are in a desperate hurry. (And who isn’t in a desperate hurry these days?) This justification suffices until you spy a vehicle in the distance with anything on its top, which is when you get the sudden and inexplicable urge to test the efficacy of your brakes. You have taught your kids that the grocery store express lane is holy, and to revere the “ten items or less” rule, unless you only have 12 things, or if someone else has taken such liberties. Then it is okay for you to do the same, except that your license permits one item above and beyond what the fiend ahead of you smuggled onto the conveyor belt. That’s just compensation for the pain and suffering you had to endure while waiting the extra three seconds for their item to scan. And, of course, you have taught your child to never lie, unless you are grooming that child for a career in high-profile politics, in which case you must teach them how to lie carefully and responsibly. (Think of it as safe lying: the alternative to total abstinence from lying.) The other exception is if it would hurt someone else’s feelings to be told the truth. Turn on any talk show and you can see the nation is full of people whose feelings are in the ICU.Yet, in spite of these firm convictions, you may find yourself slipping up from time to time. I can’t remember the first time I needed to lie to my kids. You don’t actually mean to lie, but sometimes they drive you to it. (This is a critical facet of the lie – you have to know who is really to be blamed. Most certainly, it cannot be you.) Children are the best little psychologists. Behind their charming, innocent eyes, they are studying our every response to every stimulus. They know us better than we know them.
Did you grow up with the tale that any seeds swallowed could take root in your belly? I used to go to sleep worrying how I would look at school, with a snake-tongue of a watermelon vine suspended from my mouth. My mom had another one: avoid perfume at night, as it could attract ghosts. Was that so bad? At least it made you attractive, even if only to someone just a little past the expiration date. Once, years ago, my daughters spent entire days tattling on each other. Tattling is a trait that is difficult to appreciate unless it attracts national attention, results in a book or movie deal, or wins a court settlement. Many parents have a rule against tattling: “I don’t want to hear about it unless there is blood.” Hopefully, little Cain and Abel don’t have long periods of unsupervised play.One night, when my eldest daughters were five and three, I grew weary by the fifteenth report of trivial wrongdoing. I finally broke down and lied. I told them that the term “tattle-tale” is actually “tattle-tail” - the critical difference being in the spelling of the homophone. Each time they ratted frivolously, a small tail would bud. And then, like any truly practiced liar, I began embellishing my own tale. As long as you’re lying, what’s to stop you from making it really impressive? Why else do you think it’s called a tailbone, I asked?
Better than that, I even had some bogus backup material. One of my husband’s medical texts (his hobby reading) showed a child with a “caudal appendage.” In layman’s terms, it’s a little tail-like-thing near your rear. Silly me, when my husband bought expensive books, I had little appreciated their practical value. All doubts were vanquished in the two girls’ young minds by a single glance at the photograph in the book. For the longest time, this lie worked. Every time they tattled, I would say nothing, just raise my eyebrows a bit, and strain to look at their little backsides. When they wondered what had happened to the bud I had clearly been able to distinguish in the previous week, as with all lying, I had to lie a little more to sustain it and suppress the truth. After a predetermined period of time with no repeat incidents of tattling, I told them, the tail would shrink.This worked so well on them that I’ve almost begun to believe my own lie. Isn’t that another truth about lying? If you lie long enough, you almost begin to believe it.
I would love to ponder this and worry about losing my honorary membership to the Moral Parenting Society, but right now I’m much more disturbed by the emergence of a little bump on my own backside.
Vineeta Ribeiro has six children and holds a degree in electrical engineering.