Pretty Little Liars

I’ve often wondered why my children think I’m stupid. I’ve never given them any indication that I have a learning disability or that I was raised by animals in the African jungle like Tarzan so I wonder why they think I’m dumb.


Yesterday my daughter asked if she could ride with me as I took the short (15 minute) trip to drop my boy at football practice. I told her, “yes, but you can’t fight with your brother.” They hopped in the car and I headed over to the hose to fill the water cooler. As I stood there with the hose, I watched as my car rocked back and forth—the shocks creaking from the strain. Muffled cries bounced off the back window and it took all of my willpower to open the car door rather than walk back in the house and pretend that I’d forgotten about practice. The moment I opened the door, my two sweaty children dropped in their seats and smiled. “I thought I told you not to fight with your brother,” I scolded. They looked at me all innocence and put their arms around each other, “We haven’t been fighting. We love each other.” I cocked an eyebrow, “then why is there a G.I. Joe stuck in your sister’s ponytail?”

Do they honestly believe that we just hatched, adult-sized, out of an ostrich egg? They can’t possibly comprehend the idea that we were scheming little liars once upon a time and we too believed that our parents were just giant-sized dumb kids. I’m never telling them about even half of the stuff that I thought I pulled over on my parents. I’ve since learned that I wasn’t able to hide a thing. A friend of mine said that when she arrived home after a very late night, she’d sleep on the patio until her father was up. Then she’d pick up the newspaper and walk in, telling him that she knew he’d want the paper and she just stepped out to get it for him before heading to school. I asked her, “Did he ever notice that you were wearing the same clothes you had on the day before?” She looked at me like it had never dawned on her that maybe he knew she was lying. My theory? He was doing the same thing I do at least once a day—pretending I don’t notice because I’m too tired to fight about it.

My kids at one time or another have assured me that they didn’t chop up the curtains, remove the baby’s diaper, cut their own hair, snag the new comforter in the vacuum cleaner, or throw a baseball at the stucco on the side of the house. Apparently they believe that our family is being stalked by a vicious, vengeful renegade Tooth Fairy.

The most frustrating lies they try to propagate generally involve phantom promises that I made to them. One of them will pitch a fit, bawling like a horror movie victim, about how I promised I was going to buy them a new game, or take them to the store or some other promise that I never made. They believe that if they play the part convincingly I’ll “remember” that I forgot and that I did make that promise. Obviously they’ve paid no attention to how much I hate watching money fly out of my wallet—I remember expensive promises.

One day my son arrived home from the school bus with two friends in tow and “reminded” me that I said he could have friends over to play. I’m standing in the doorway, fully dressed with my purse on my arm and my keys in my hand, ready to take him to his doctor’s appointment. Pretty sure I didn’t make that promise. I stared at him incredulously before loading all the boys in my car, dropping them off to their apologetic mothers who were bamboozled into believing they play-date was real by their pretty little liars.

When I arrived home on that particular day, I threw my keys on the table and popped my heels off my feet before sinking into a chair and wishing it would just swallow me whole. My son came in and asked if I had bought him the messy snack cakes he likes so much and I told him that they were in the drawer waiting for him. He jumped on top of me and wrapped his arms around my neck, “You’re the best mom ever.” Who says that I don’t like my pretty little liars? Sometimes I’m actually glad they’re so bad at telling the truth.