OUTLAW INLAW
Afew weeks ago I took part in the Moth reading series in Austin. This is a story hour that invites people up onto a stage to share true stories from their lives.
I shared a story about my time raising my two kids in Rockdale. Back then, I even wrote about it in the paper. I thought the story was worth repeating, because anyone who has raised kids or is now raising them has had to broach the topic of how to teach children when it’s okay to lie.
When my youngest son was four and oldest six, they always managed to startle me with the truth. They were too honest for their own good. Once the oldest told me that he let his teacher know, “You’re a good teacher, but you’re not my favorite.” He also asked, “Why couldn’t we just have gotten a puppy instead of a baby brother.” It was about this time I realized that I needed to teach them both about white lies.
This lesson happened where most important lessons about life in our house happened – in front of the television set.
During spring break, the boys and I watched a lot of videos and ate a good share of potato chips, which, incidentally, helped unnerve me even more when the two boys splashed the truth on me like a pail full of ice water.
They both insisted I sit between them during a video marathon.
My youngest yelled, “Sit next to me, Mama!” Then he proceeded to hug the armrest of the couch. The oldest said the same and hugged the other armrest on the couch.
It was one of those three-seater sofa’s with big, boxy, soft cushions. I made the mistake of asking, “What are you guys doing?”
The youngest said, “We move over because you’ve got a big, big butt.”
This wouldn’t have been so bad, maybe even funny or cute, if he hadn’t stretched out his little arms as wide as he could to show me his meaning.
When I saw that the width of his four-year-old arms weren’t that far off, I put the potato chip I was about to eat back into the bag and did what any self-respecting woman would do in a situation like that, I lied.
I said, “No, I don’t.”
But these boys weren’t having any such nonsense.
The oldest, while nodding his head up and down, said, “Yeah, you do, mom.”
Rather than argue I sat in the middle of the couch, right where they left all the room for me. Both boys slid toward me because of the deep indention my, ahem, bottom made on the cushion, and I handed the potato chip bag to the oldest.
During the movie, which I didn’t watch, I was trying to figure out how to explain to the boys about telling white lies. I wanted them to understand how sometimes lying is acceptable, even preferable. Then I realized there were too many ways that the conversation could be derailed or be misconstrued.
When the movie ended, I blurted out with more emotion than I anticipated, “You know you shouldn’t ever tell anyone that they have a big butt.”
“Why not?” the youngest wanted to know. I said, “Because it hurt my feelings.”
The oldest, who has always been the more sensitive of the two, petted my hand, leaned in to study my sadness then said, “But why, it’s true?”
I stiffened my lip and almost yelled, “You just should never tell boys or girls that they have a big anything.”
There was silence before my youngest showed me his biceps. “I have big muscles,” he said. I said, “Well, honey, you don’t, not really.”
His bottom lip quivered as he said, “Yes, I do. I do, Mama, Daddy said.”
In an effort to enlighten him or maybe get back at him, I persisted, “That’s called a white lie.”
My son’s round face was red and his frown made me feel like a big-butted ogre bullying a four-year-old.
I gave up my white lie lesson and said, “Yes, you do have really big muscles.”
He smiled big and wide then repeated, “And you have a big, big butt Mama.”
“Yes, yes I do son,” I said.
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