To Tell the Truthiness
Written By Brett Paesel
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Let's face it, most parents' lies exist merely as shortcuts to tranquility — and I cannot dredge up one iota of guilt about them. Depending on the circumstances, the truth can produce 15 minutes to one hour of wailing. If we sidestep that every once in a while, what's the harm? Believe me, if I could take back the explanation to my then 2-year-old that a C-section is an operation where they slice into the mommy's tummy to get the baby, I would.
Children rely on adults to explain the world to them. And given this amount of power over the situation, it's surprising that we tell the truth as often as we do.
If my friend Jenna's sons wake up shy of daybreak, she assures them it's midnight. My friend Shari tells her kids that ice cream trucks are "music trucks" that drive around the neighborhood playing music just to make people happy in the middle of the day. I also have been guilty of slightly bigger lies like, "Daddy and I were having a discussion, not an argument," "Shhh, the fish is sleeping," and "We were naked wrestling." We parents lie to protect our children from concepts or subjects they are too young to fully comprehend: sex, death, and the many ways in which adults interact with one another.
Not only do we lie on our own, we also lie in a pack. I recently participated in a communal mommy lie to the children at my son's preschool. One morning, upon finding the classroom's beloved bunny Penny paws up, cold, and very dead, the moms met in the supply closet to devise a plan of action before the kids got wise. One mom preposterously suggested that this was a great time to teach the kids about the cycle of life.
"Are you kidding?" another mom said. "Benjamin adores that bunny. Tell him Penny's dead and he'll set off a day of group keening. Not to mention the death questions we'll have to answer: 'Why'd she die?' 'Where did she go?' 'Do bunnies have a separate heaven from the foxes who could eat them?' I say go get a reasonable facsimile and call it a day."
The mothers shuffled, stared at their shoes.
"Come on," urged Benjamin's mom. "All those in favor of a replacement bunny, raise your hands."
The vote was unanimous. The kids didn't even notice that the replacement bunny's markings were substantially different from poor Penny's.
Parental lying is a time-honored coping mechanism that you won't find recommended in any child-rearing tome. But aside from whoppers like the stork brings babies and masturbation causes blindness, I have yet to meet an adult who feels remotely betrayed by his or her parents' tiny casual lies. It appears that our adult selves understand and appreciate these deceptions retroactively.
My friend Justin is even resentful that his mom didn't lie. He recalls a terrifying morning when she anxiously watched news of the U.S. bombing of Libya. Before leaving for school, Justin reminded her there was a field trip the next day.
"We might not be here tomorrow," she said grimly.
"Would it have killed her to lie a little for me?" says Justin. "I went to school thinking the world was going to blow up the next day."
Soon after Pat and I distracted Spence from the Crocodile Hunter headline at the magazine stand, I find myself standing in front of a televised tribute to Irwin, and pointing wildly at a nonexistent ladybug on the wall. Spence runs over to the wall as I quickly switch channels. He peers and peers and says, "There isn't any ladybug here, Mom."
I shrug weakly and collapse into a chair.
That evening I say to Pat, "Lying about the Crocodile Hunter is exhausting. Plus, it occurred to me that far from protecting Spence, we're making him anxious by seeing things that aren't there."
Pat sighs in agreement.
"So how do we tell him?" I ask.
"We could pretend to discover it while we're with him. We could say, 'Spence. Look at this magazine that says the Crocodile Hunter died.' "
"What if Spence gets upset and tells someone who says that he died months ago? Won't he figure out that we've been lying to him all along?"
"Nah," says Pat. "We say we just didn't know. He already thinks we're seeing things. The fact that we were ignorant about one of the most publicized deaths of the year won't be a shocker."
Pat and I talk well into the evening, mulling over ways to lie about the lie. While the truth about the lie remains unconsidered. It is this: "We lied, Son, because we cannot bear to see you in pain. We cannot bear to see you sad, disappointed, or frightened. We lied because we are imperfect. We lied because we love you.
"But if you EVER lie to US . . . !"
Plus: An expert's take on lying to kids
