And The Award For Best Dramatic Performance by an Abandoned 8 year-old Girl Goes to…

Posted: January 24, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: kids, motherhood, stay at home mom, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , | 9 Comments

Today the Oscar nominations were announced. It was pretty much a roundup of the usual suspects: Meryl Streep, George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Woody Allen, etc. An impressive and deserving lot. But every year certain people get overlooked. I’ve recently seen a performance that would rival any of those that were nominated today. It was a performance so penetrating, so nuanced, so expert – that I can hardly believe it wasn’t in contention for the industry’s top honor. And it was carried out by my own flesh and blood, the fruit of my loins, the apple of my eye… my daughter Ellie, 8.  She wrote, directed and starred in this performance of a young girl’s struggle after being cruelly abandoned by her parents. For 7 days.

I know it’s tacky when parents take credit for their kids success, but in this case I believe we truly were her inspiration. You see, each year my husband and I go on a week’s vacation sans kids. And it was this event that proved the catalyst for her performance, so wounded was she by the betrayal.

It is a tale as old as time: Parents go away for a little R&R, kids are sad, parents come back, kids are happy. But to a dramatic genius (as she is being called by some industry insiders), this tired plotline was elevated and imbued with new life! Armed with nothing more than an iPod Touch and a free text messaging app, the young Miss Orr delivered a visceral, haunting portrait of a girl left behind by her parents with nothing but the love of her grandparents, her house, all her clothes & toys, more than enough food to eat, at least one shopping trip to Toys r Us, and more than one outing to McDonald’s. It’s a wonder she survived.

Here is a look (actual transcript):

i am crying i miss u. when I hear your voice it makes me eve sadder i am crying in bed and nobody knows it i am crying and i don’t want anybody to know and i am under my covers I really miss u and wish u would come back soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo badly. i am so upset i could scream out Loud in tears. and its not funny. fletcher is not showering and papa says its ok. i am not having a good time. i having a horrible terrible time and i will the whole week. i wish you never left.

And that was not even the highlight of the performance. Realizing her pleas were not having the desired effect of us hoping on the next flight home, she dug down deeper to produce an even more compelling portrait of a girl slowly unraveling:

Nobody knows i am crying but tears are dripping down my face and i feel soooooooo sad i love you ☹ ☹ ☹ My hair is wet from tears i’m so sad. WHY DID YOU LEVE. What time is it? sniff. It is 9:24 here. Bye i will cry to fall asleep Oh i wish you were here. i can’t fall asleep. Me and flootch are both crying waaaaaaaaaa. Wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwyyyyyyyyyyyy????????????? Still sad…… u said u would call us No Please Answer the phone i am waiting for u to call. Ddaad. i am so sad your having a good time and we are having a horrid time

And my favorite part, was toward the end of the performance, when – spurred on by our claims that maybe talking to us on the phone was making things worse, her desperation reaches frenzied heights and she responds with:

i am as sad as a hippo that stayed awake for 70 years. can you answer your face time. Please. i am calling you. i am in your bed and i don’t smell anything that smells like you and. i’m sooooooo sad . can’t you just come back

i miss u so much

i am balling

It is poring

Now if that isn’t an Oscar worthy performance, I don’t know what is…

Fitted Sheets & The Human Genome Project

Posted: January 2, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: children, motherhood, parenting, stay at home mom, writing | Tags: , , , , | 9 Comments

My parents raised me to believe that I could do anything I set my mind to. As it turns out, however, this is not true. In reality, there are lots of things I can’t do. A few that spring to mind are: the splits (Chinese or regular); making out the hidden image embedded in one of those 3-D art posters; and properly folding a fitted sheet. Since I am neither a member of Cirque-du-Soleil nor a collector of 1990’s mall art, the first two don’t cause me much consternation. But as the keeper-of-linens in my house, it really chaps my ass that I can’t fold a fitted sheet no matter how hard I try. And believe me, I’ve tried.

In an effort to shield my delicate ego from this particular failing, I have developed a hypothesis that allows me to absolve myself of any responsibility for it. I have concluded that the ability to fold a fitted sheet is a genetic – something as out of my control as the color of my eyes or being able to roll my tongue into a hot dog. One can either do it, or not. No amount of practicing is going to help. Have you ever seen someone who doesn’t have the gene try to hot-dog their tongue? It’s just sad (and by sad, I mean hilarious). It’s the same with fitted sheets.

As with so many of my shortcomings, it is comforting when I can deflect responsibility and blame my inferior genetic wellspring (and by inferior genetic wellspring, I mean my Mom and Dad). My mother, who theoretically is responsible for at least half of my genetic material, can force a fitted sheet into a crisp, perfect rectangle just by giving it a stern look. She is the Darth Vader of folding fitted sheets.  So obviously my problem can’t be her fault. My defect must come from my father who, as far as I know, has never even attempted fold a sheet -fitted or otherwise. This scientifically (and by scientifically, I mean arbitrarily) proves my hypothesis that the FFS (folding fitted sheet) gene must be recessive, passed down through the father’s side. Kind of like baldness is on the mother’s side.

If you have been genetically blessed with the FFS gene, you are probably thinking that I just haven’t tried hard enough. Or that I’ve just never had someone teach me how to do it. But I assure you this is not the case. I’ve been given at least a dozen lessons by my mother, plus I’ve watched countless helpful women on YouTube (and by helpful women on You Tube, I mean pretentious ninnies) who make me feel bad about myself by suggesting ‘it’s so simple everyone can do it!’ in their upbeat voices as they swish, flatten, and press their fitted sheets into folded perfection. Dutifully, I follow each step. But in the end, my sheet looks like something I’m using to smuggle contraband into the linen closet (and by contraband, I mean my pride).

But now I don’t have to feel bad about myself anymore. Knowing (and by knowing, I mean blinding believing) that properly folding a fitted sheet is a genetic trait, takes away all the guilt and shame that I’ve felt for years. And now when I open the door to my linen closet and it looks like a three-fingered pirate wrapped his booty in old sheets and stored it in there for safe-keeping, I am comforted by the fact that it isn’t my fault. After all, I am only a collection cells encoded with pre-determined genetic material. In other words, I am only human (and by human, I mean a superior being capable of rationalization). (And by a superior being capable of rationalization, I mean a person willing to believe my own bullshit.)

Beyond Helicopter Parenting… How About Rickshaw, Limousine, and Ice Cream Truck Parenting?

Posted: November 29, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: children, motherhood, parenting, stay at home mom, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , | 11 Comments

We all know a Helicopter Parent when we see one. They’re the Moms and Dads obsessively bug spraying, sun-blocking, or hat-n-gloving their kids while shouting at them not to climb too high, swim too far out, or touch anything in the bathroom. However much we may judge these parents, (even when we see them in the mirror) we feel a sense of satisfaction being able to put a name to their neurosis. They are Helicopter Parents and we know this because a doctor and a parenting guru (Foster W. Cline, M.D. and Jim Fay) coined this useful term in 1990. Since then, the expression has been firmly entrenched in our vocabulary.

As far as I’m concerned, Helicopter Parenting is the best kind of term – descriptive, memorable, fitting, and kind of funny. But it’s limited. It only describes one parenting style. And since most of us employ multiple parenting methods throughout the years, perhaps even throughout the day, I feel the list of parenting metaphors can and should be expanded. So, though I am neither a doctor nor a parenting guru, I’ve taken a crack at it myself.

See if you can identify your parenting style in the list below. Or tell me if you know of one I missed. I’d love to hear which kind of parent you are because hearing about other parents not being perfect makes me feel better about being so alarmingly far from it myself. Plus, I love comments on my blog. Plus, I’m just generally nosy.

So, Are You a…

Tandem Bicycle Parent: These parents attempt to get their children involved in the parenting process with questions like, “What do you think your punishment should be?” and “How much do you think you should get for allowance?” Much like the tandem bicycle itself, this kind of parenting sounds like it would be fun, but isn’t. If you choose to parent this way, keep in mind that although the tandem bike may have two sets of pedals, only one person can steer it.

Carnival Cruise Parent: These parents want to have fun! They either can’t find a babysitter or feel too guilty to leave the kids at home, so they bring them along wherever they go. The parents continue to behave exactly as they would if their children were not there, stopping occasionally to feed and briefly converse with their offspring – usually uttering the words, “Not now,” and “When I’m ready to go.”

Rickshaw Parent (also known as Field Plow and Dog Sled Parents): These parents like to take it easy. They are perfectly comfortable to sit back and direct their children from afar. They tell their kids to take out the trash, rake the leaves, and make dinner – all from the comfort of the couch. This kind of parenting works best under a fear-based regime and only until the children grow weary and stage the inevitable coup.

Express Train Parent: These parents are in a big hurry all the time. Their constant refrain is, “Let’s go! C’mon! Let’s go!” They get things done. Lots of things.  They never sit still. They never chill out. They are always in forward motion. Their children often resort to lollygagging in a passive-aggressive form of protest, often causing the Express Train Parent to go “off the rails.”

Ice Cream Truck Parent: Almost everyone is guilty of being one of these parents at least once in a while. Ice Cream Truck parents get their child to do what they want them to do by promising them a sweet treat if they comply. Effective. To be used sparingly. (Admission: My daughter will do almost anything for a Hershey’s Kiss, so in my house this technique is grossly overused.)

Limousine Parent: These parents want to make sure their kids arrive in style. They want it known that their children are special and deserve to stand out. Limousine parents needn’t know the direction they are going, because they’ve hired someone to know for them. They only need to pony up the dough and sit back and enjoy the ride. Be aware: Kids parented in this way may become driven by a lavish lifestyle, but not know how to get there on their own.

Motorcycle Side Car Parent: These parents have a wild side. They like their adrenaline rush and want their kids to like it too. They travel in the fast lane and take the kids along as they bob and weave their way on down the road. These parents love high speeds and high drama. Note: This can also work in reverse, where the child drives and the parent goes along for the ride. Either way, best to buckle up. It’s usually a bumpy ride.

Southwest Airlines Parent: These parents are on a budget and know how to have a good time. So what if they’re not super-organized? Who cares if occasionally they take off without all of their passengers? They are fun! They are wild. They compose funny raps and make wry, witty puns about safety and cleanliness. They may not be the most refined parents around, but they get the job done and do it with a smile.

VW Bug Parenting: These parents don’t believe personal space; they like to be super-close to their kids.

EuroRail Parent (aka, Tour Bus Parent): These parents want their kids to see it all, do it all, and experience it all. They take their children from museums to galleries to monuments (whether they like it or not). These parents have a constant talk-track going about what they are seeing and why it will improve their kids lives. Note: Kids generally absorb only 5 – 7% of this information. Even less when they have access to an iPhone or a Nintendo DS.

Bulldozer Parenting: These parents know where they want their children to go in life and they will flatten anyone who gets in their way (including the children themselves). Best to get out of the way when you see a Bulldozer parent if at all possible.

Slow-Boat-to-China Parents (aka, River Boat and Barge Parenting): These parents believe that kids grow up too darn fast these days. In many ways, they are the opposite of the Express Train parents. They believe that all good things come to those who wait and that homemade fun is the best kind of fun. Their children don’t watch TV, eat microwave meals, or play with electronic/tech based toys.

Private Jet Parents (aka, Maybach Parenting): These parents want their kid to know that they have a lot of money and that they aren’t afraid to spend it.

Four-Wheeler Parents: These parents are looking to recreate the kind of fun they remember having when they were kids. Often times, they are remembering things from when they were an older child. But in their zeal, Four Wheeler parents will forget this and attempt to relive all their childhood memories when junior is about five years too young. You see them with their one year olds at DoraLive! Or off for a hunting trip before the kid can even read. Or with their American Girl whose face has been colored on with a sharpie. (Note: A mutation of this kind of parent is the GoKart Parent, which is the deep-fried version of the Four Wheel Parent. They function the same way, but are frequently drawn to guns, roadside fireworks, and yes, GoKarts.)

Wonder Woman’s Invisible Jet Parents: The worst kind of parents. These people have kids, but no one ever actually sees them parenting anybody.

Old is the New Black

Posted: November 21, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Next weekend I will attend my 20th High School Reunion. Which seems weird to me because I feel like I was in high school was just yesterday. Ok, maybe not yesterday. Maybe the day before yesterday. Or possibly late last week. But it certainly doesn’t seem like it’s been 20 freaking years since I graduated. But it’s true.

This brings me face-to-face with the inescapable reality that I am no longer a young person. It doesn’t make me old-old, but it certainly rules out the possibility of me being objectively young. I’m not sure how I feel about this. I know, I know. You’re only as old as you feel! Age is just a number! I get it – it’s passé to lament aging. Publicly. (However, in the privacy of your Dermatologist’s office, feel free.) We’re told to embrace each day as it comes because every day is a gift. It’s true. I know. Blah. When it comes to getting older, I feel – in the wise words that are my sister’s mantra – it is what it is.

It’s fine. I can accept getting older. Older is okay. Older has been good to me so far. Older has brought me a husband who will clean out the garage and rub my feet; two delicious children (metaphorically speaking, of course); and a peace with myself that I didn’t have in 1991 when I graduated high school. Nearly every aspect of my life is better now than it was 20 years ago.

So maybe I can’t eat pizza after 8 o’clock without needing an IV to flush the sodium out of my bloodstream. And maybe now I think twice whether or not those adorable leopard pumps would actually be comfortable? These are not things that really matter in life. The bottom line is that there is little about my youth to pine for – except, I suppose, youth itself. (And by my youth itself, mostly I mean my metabolism.)

To illustrate this point, I made a chart.

When I was Younger…

Now that I am Older…

I was insecure about my decisions, my skills, my possessions, my ideas, my relationships, my talents, my looks, etc.

I am confident on the good days; I forgive myself on the others.

I cared way too much what everybody thought about me all the time.

I realize that most people aren’t thinking about me at all. And they never were. And furthermore, who cares?

I had a coarse, frizzy brown mop on top of my head.

I have smooth, straight, blondish chemically fried, but infinitely more attractive hair.

I waited for people to ask me out on dates.

The love of my life is legally bound to date me forever.

I babysat other people’s children.

I have minions children of my own.

I had to share a car with my sister.

The minivan is mine, all mine.

I wondered what I would be when I grew up?

I know that the answer to that question comes in list form and can be added to daily.

I was a slave to grammar.

I. Write. The. Way. I. Want.

I had a killer metabolism.

Damn, I miss that.

This weekend at my reunion, I will be confronted with the physical and emotional manifestations of time reflected in my classmates faces. Just as they are in mine.  And I will try to remember this little list to ease the sting of being Older. After all, if I’m lucky, there’s a lot more where that came from.

 

 

Why Candy Tastes Better When It’s Free (or Stolen From Your Kids)

Posted: October 31, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: children, kids, motherhood, parenting | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

There is only one thing that tastes better than free candy. And that is free candy you steal from your children. Candy you take out of your child’s Halloween stash somehow tastes sweeter, lasts longer, and seems less caloric than candy begotten from other means. I rationalize stealing my kids candy in two ways:

1. I think of it as a luxury tax. I bought the costume. I took them around from house to house. And I will most certainly have to deal with the consequences of their massive bellyaches once they’ve snarfed down eleven pounds of candy in half an hour. The way I see it, I deserve a percentage of net sales.

2. I tell myself I’m doing it for them. No responsible parent would allow their children to eat triple their body weight in sugar, would they?. By dipping into their supply, I am actually protecting them. I am being a good parent. I am acting righteously. (Refer to earlier post on How to Feel Righteous Everyday: A Cheater’s Guide).

But beware: Once children reach the age of four (or possibly a precocious three) they will protect their candy with their lives. If you are going to be successful in your quest, you must have a game plan. You must shut out all thoughts of selflessness and altruism. You must come prepared for battle. Here are a few bits of advice to help you along the way:

  • When they dump their candy out on the floor to bask in its gluttonous glory, take note of any doubles and triples. Start with these items first. The earlier you can extract them, the better.
  • Never, ever make the mistake of asking or worse, saying something like, “Let’s see, what do we have here…” This causes instant foodstress in kids and puts them on the defensive. You want them unaware.
  • Tell them you have to check the candy for razor blades or other forms of tampering. The only way to know for sure is to test it out yourself. That’ll buy you at least a couple of pieces – but won’t work forever. Most kids I know would rather risk being poisoned than give away their Halloween candy.
  • You can always pull the classic, “Look over there! Is that The Great Pumpkin?” and while their sweet little heads are turned, you swipe a bag of M&Ms or a Payday (if you roll with peanuts).
  • Don’t be greedy. Never take the King Size Twix or the cute little homemade marshmallow pops the Martha-wanna-be down the street gave out. You’ll get busted for sure. Stick to the common stuff – your Hershey’s mini’s, your individually wrapped licorice, your Tootsie rolls, etc.
  • Obviously, when they are at school and/or asleep, you have free reign to pillage at will. But be aware that some children take inventory and will know when something goes missing. You will pay the price in shame if you get caught. And possibly in actual candy as well. I’ll admit I had to do some re-stocking during the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup binge of ’08.
  • Kids fear the unknown food. Play upon their natural pickiness. You can pull out the lesser-known Skor bar and say, “You don’t like this, do you?” and before they even know what hit them you’re enjoying that rich toffee goodness.

Best of luck in your efforts tonight… Happy hunting and Happy Halloween!

 

 

Conquering The Beast

Posted: October 24, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , | 8 Comments

I’m afraid that I’m kind of a scaredy cat. I’m not paralyzed by fear –just generally wary, mostly of things having to do with high speeds, heights, the dark, and/or threat of mortal peril. I don’t walk around town wearing a helmet anything, but I am not what you would call a risk taker either. I’ve never ridden a roller coaster. I’ve never gone white water rafting. I’ve never been in a hot air balloon or a helicopter. I’ve never gone bungee jumping. Never gone sky diving, wind surfing, or even parasailing.

Most of the time this is okay with me. After all, somebody has to stay behind to hold the coats while everyone else is off riding the Screaming Death Loop.

But there is a part of me that wonders if I’m missing out by always taking the safe route.  As I get older, I find myself thinking that maybe only doing what feels safe and comfortable is kind of cop-out? Maybe it’s just plain boring? Maybe being so rigid when it comes to doing things outside of my comfort zone ends up limiting my range of experiences and therefore my enjoyment of life? Usually, I have these thoughts in brief snippets at times when my most perilous choice is between red or white.

But I was faced with such a choice this weekend while in Kansas City with three of my dearest friends for a girl’s weekend away. After dinner on Saturday night, the girls thought it would be fun to go to one of Kansas City’s famed haunted houses. The destination in question was The Beast, a four-story “open format” haunted house in which you have to find your way through an abandoned warehouse while being chased by werewolves, chainsaw wielding maniacs, and zombies who pop out of the darkness and scare the s*** out of you. The whole thing culminates at the exit, which is a four-story slide straight down.

I told them I would hold their coats.

The over-developed part of my brain that specializes in rationalizations told my friends (and myself for that matter), “It’s not that I’m scared to go – I just don’t want to go. I just don’t enjoy that kind of thing.”  I mean why would I want to do that when I could be sitting in a hotel lounge somewhere listening to music and sipping a cocktail, right? Being the good friends they are, they were going to let me sit it out. But then a funny thing happened. I started to want to go. I suppose it could have been peer pressure, but I don’t think that was it. It was more like disappointment in myself for wimping out, yet again.

So after having a drink at the bar, it was decided that all four of us would go together. We hopped in a cab to the sketchy part of town, paid the rather exorbitant entrance fee, and took on The Beast. We spent the next 45 minutes shuffling through the warehouse in our high heels (a rookie mistake) with all 8 of our arms linked together tighter than bark on a tree. The four of us screamed at the top of our lungs while gory, spooky creatures jumped out of the blackness and chased us through the winding, fog-machine-fog filled rooms.  We were all screaming, yelling, laughing, slightly sweating, and one of us (you know who you are) was cussing like a drunken sailor. We were, in other words, having a wonderful time.

After we conquered The Beast, we felt like rock stars. Never mind that as we left  we saw many of our fellow Beast Slayers being picked up by their moms in minivans. Never mind that it took nearly 20 minutes for my heart rate to come back to normal. I felt brave! Not just for getting through the haunted house without soiling myself, but because I didn’t let being afraid stop me from doing it. And I’m so glad I did it. It even made me feel a little righteous. I know it was only a haunted house. And I know most people have this experience by the time they are 14, but I always thought I was too chicken to do something like that. And that night, I wasn’t. It felt good.

Immediately upon leaving The Beast, we went out for a celebratory glass of champagne at a little piano bar called The Cigar Box, a throwback to the old lounges of back-in-the-day, complete with a crooner covering Frank Sinatra tunes while wearing a silk-shirt-and-smoking jacket combo and one of the worst toupees you’ve ever seen. We sat there for the rest of the night laughing about our experience with The Beast, feeling like we were kids again – blithe, fearless, and silly.

The best part was that in the end, The Beast wasn’t even the scariest thing we saw that night. That toupee was downright frightening.

How to Feel Righteous Everyday: A Cheater’s Guide

Posted: October 17, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , | 12 Comments

I will admit that I like feeling righteous. This is not to be confused with feeling self-righteous – which is to say, smug. Smugness is ugly and coarse and inelegant. But righteousness is above all that. To feel righteous is to feel conscientious, dutiful, virtuous, irreproachable – in short, Good.

But Good does not come cheap. Often times doing Good involves time and sacrifice. I have devised a system to get around all that. I have a list of Everyday Righteous Activities which, admittedly fall a bit short of the lofty heights of volunteering at soup kitchens or reading to disadvantaged youth, but still provide me a small sense of virtuosity, even if only for a couple of seconds. (The rule is: The smaller the act of Good, the shorter time you can spend feeling righteous about it.)

I do not pretend that these things will put me in contention for the Nobel Peace Prize, but I think you will agree that doing them is better than not doing them. And that is really the only qualification for inclusion on this list.

Everyday Righteous Activities:

  • Eating vegetables
  • Any form of exercise
  • Shaving my legs
  • Letting a car go in front of me in traffic
  • Not shopping
  • Any act of cleaning my home
  • Making a dinner in which no ingredients came out of a bag or box
  • Showering and washing my hair
  • Wearing something other than yoga pants
  • Not having dessert
  • Holding the door for the person behind me
  • Sewing on a button (or sewing of any kind)
  • Clipping my kids fingernails
  • Not going to Starbucks for my Iced Mocha
  • Slowing down, rather than gunning it, when approaching a yellow light
  • Eating soy products that pretend to be chicken or ground beef
  • Wearing shoes other than flip-flops or tennis shoes
  • Giving my dogs a bath
  • Recycling
  • Thinking about starting to compost
  • Reading a newspaper
  • Folding and putting away laundry on the same day
  • Eating fruit with the skin on
  • Using up the last of my hair products before buying new ones
  • Opting for soda water instead of diet soda
  • Putting a new roll of toilet paper on the thingy

Some might say that these things are nothing to feel special about. But I challenge those people to shift their paradigm: To believe that yes, you ARE a rock star because you cleaned behind your refrigerator. Or to feel proud of the fact that you got up, showered, and left the house. After all, you could have not done that, right? You could have sat on your ass eating canned cheese in your underwear all day. But you didn’t. You mowed the grass. You asked your mail carrier how her day was. You took your grocery cart to the cart-return and didn’t let it roll amuck. It may not be much, but there is some value in that.

The way I see it, my Everyday Righteous Activities are like my everyday clothing: Functional, comfortable, not-too-fancy, and easy to get away with. I also have my Good clothes, which I break out on special occasions; just like I do Good on a larger scale on special occasions, or at least as often as I can. But not everyday. Not everyone has the time everyday to engage in grand gestures of human kindness and/or public service (unless you are my father-in-law or Oprah.) For the rest of us mortals, I offer my list. Use it as a righteousness-patch – something to get you through until you have the time to dedicate yourself to something truly worthwhile.  And while you’re at it, go ahead and give yourself a pat on the back for reading this blog. You deserve it.

Liar, liar, Mom Jeans on Fire!

Posted: August 15, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: motherhood, stay at home mom | Tags: , , | 102 Comments

I’d be lying if I said I always tell my children the truth. And while I’m sure it doesn’t make me a lock for Mother-of-the-Year, (that ship undoubtedly sailed the morning I served fruit rollups for breakfast) I don’t think it makes me unfit either. The truth is that telling a few well-intentioned white lies can actually be a fairly effective parenting strategy. And to be honest, sometimes it just gets me through the day.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not encouraging inventing vast networks of lies that you need a spreadsheet to keep track of. But our kids don’t need to know everything. Nor can they handle everything. Obviously, you adjust what you choose to share with your kids as they get older and more mature. My kids are 7 and 10, and by this point I’d say 99.9% of the time, I tell my children the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. They both know where babies come from. They both know that nobody lives forever. And they both know Mommy’s hair doesn’t necessarily grow out of her head this color.

The lie one chooses to tell, ultimately depends on one’s motivation. More often not, we fib to either keep our kids safe (“If you go outside with wet hair, you will catch cold,”) or to simplify a complicated situation (“The mechanical horsey is broken,” when you have one quarter but two children). Below are some of the various lies, half-truths, fabrications, and otherwise un-true things I have told my children at some point during their relatively short lives. Sadly, I can no longer get away with most of these.

I have lied in the best interests of my children:

  • The car engine won’t turn on until your seatbelt is buckled.
  • Eating spinach will give you big muscles.
  • College is mandatory by law.
  • You’ll love this new kind of chicken (otherwise knows as Tilapia).

I have lied to save my children’s feelings:

  • Yours was the best pinch pot in the whole class.
  • The shot will only hurt for a second.
  • That bunny in the road is just sleeping.
  • That is a hilarious knock-knock joke.

Then, there are the lies I’ve told for completely and utterly self-serving reasons.

  • Only one Reeses peanut butter cup comes in a pack.
  • Santa won’t come until you’re asleep.
  • We’re out of batteries.
  • Mommy and Daddy are taking a nap.

Of course, there are the societal and seasonal lies (think: holiday friends and dental darlings). These are things we tell our kids in the spirit of preserving their innocence and creating a sense of magic. The adult world is appallingly un-magical and since they have the rest of their lives to live in it, I feel no guilt whatsoever in inventing a bit of wonder and joy while they are young enough to believe. Besides, these lies have an internal expiration date (usually between six and ten, depending on older siblings and know-it-all classmates). I believe these are victimless lies and very rarely do they cause a child to feel betrayed when the truth eventually comes out. In fact, most kids play along long after they’ve stopped believing because they enjoy the charade so much.

Undoubtedly, there are some parents out there who never, ever tell their kids even the smallest of fibs. (They are probably the same people who use cloth diapers, eat only organic foods, and drive electric cars.) If you are one of these parents, then good for you. I admire your resolve, your integrity, and your discipline. But for the less virtuous among us, there are some instances when stretching the truth – or circumventing it entirely -can sure come in handy. Believe me. (Or maybe not, given what I’ve just confessed.)

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