Being raised Catholic means growing up with a tremendous sense of guilt about, well, everything. I learned early in my childhood that lying was a sin. But, I didn’t realize how many lies I was told by the adults around me until I spent this week on family vacation and found myself lying to my two-year-old nephew roughly 674 times daily, adjusting for inflation.
Charlie: I want snacks!
Me: Oh, darn, no more snacks left.
(Said while shoving a handful of Goldfish crackers in my pocket to consume in a locked bedroom five minutes later.)
Charlie: I want TV!
Me: Sorry, dude. The TV is broken.
(What are the odds that every TV this kid comes upon seems to be malfunctioning lately?)
As someone who ranks integrity above all other values, I was amazed at how easily the lies spilled out of my mouth.
I started thinking about all the lies I was told and when I discovered my parents were, if not sociopaths, then practitioners of the “do as I say” parenting philosophy. I can’t blame them. After all, some of the lies began with their own parents, and perhaps date even further back in my family tree.
For example, my paternal grandmother, Mary “Toots” (rhymes with foots) Hafner told me I would never learn to whistle if I didn’t eat the crusts of my bread. Obviously, she didn’t want me to waste food. What I don’t understand to this day is why whistling ability was supposed to motivate me. I am still unable to whistle effectively despite having eaten plenty of crusts in nearly four decades. Somehow I have managed to carry on despite what is surely a debilitating handicap.
When I was around five, my dog Tashi went on vacation. At least, this is the line I was fed whenever I asked where Tashi had gone and when she was coming back. It would be years later that I would learn the truth. I was reading Where The Red Fern Grows for sixth grade literature class and when I was struck with the grim realization, “TASHI IS NOT ON VACATION!”
There were plenty of other lies, too.
“If you swallow your gum, it stays in your stomach for seven years.”
“If you swallow a watermelon seed, you’ll grow a watermelon in your belly.”
And what child didn’t grow up hearing the classic, “Don’t make that face, or it’ll freeze that way.”
As I grew older, I carried on the tradition, using lies to torture my little sister, Emily, for my personal entertainment. Once, I told her chewing gum came from the chicle tree, which was true. but when she later pointed to a tree and asked, “Is that one of those gum trees?” I seized the opportunity and doubled down, telling her, “Yes, that is a chicle tree. And, if you chew on the leaves, it turns into gum in your mouth.” I’ll never forget the look of skepticism as she began chewing, nor the determined expression as she fought back her gagging, whilst I provided encouragement like, “Sometimes it takes a few minutes. Just keep chewing. Maybe add more leaves.”
The lies I tell my nephew are less cruel and usually fall into one of two categories: 1) Stop him from hurting himself, or 2) Stop him from being annoying.
And, I have to admit, some of the lies I was told were indeed in my best interest. As I get older, my perspective continues to change.
For example, as a small child, I once lied to my grandmother about having wet my pants while we were out for a walk. When we returned to the house, I locked myself in the bathroom to assess the damage. To my utter horror, I discovered pee had dribbled down my legs and absorbed into my socks.
I must have been in there too long, because my grandmother finally knocked and asked me if I was okay. In my shame and panic, I hid my socks in the cabinet under the sink, intending to go back and retrieve them after grandma was gone. Then, I went to my room, changed clothes, and reveled at my evidence disposal skills.
My confidence was short lived.
When I opened my bedroom door, my grandma was standing there – holding my pee-soaked socks! I was caught. Not only did I face the embarrassment of having wet my pants, but now I would be punished for lying about it. I could feel hot tears welling in my eyes.
But mine would not be the final lie of the day.
Without missing a beat, Grandma matter-of-factly said, “Annie, I was in the bathroom and I found these wet socks in the cabinet. There must be a leaky pipe under the sink. Go ahead and put them in your hamper.”
I breathed a sigh of relief at having avoided further humiliation. To this day, I have never spoken of this story, and for many years, my memory was that Grandma thought the sink leaked on my socks and I had gotten away with a lie. It wasn’t until this memory came back to me this week that I realized she knew all along.
Of course she knew.
Thankfully, she was part of a legacy of liars. I think about this legacy now whenever I tell my nephew he is a great artist or compliment his singing.
Sometimes the truth is better left unsaid.
Annie Was Here 