Lying. This is a biggie for me, being a child of divorce with abandonment issues. 

I can handle most any kid-related screw-up, but lying.  The phone didn't ring, allowing me to sleep until five a.m. when I woke with a start. I knew the second my eyes were open that he had not called.  I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and punched the missed calls log.  Nothing.  Lifted the receiver on the house phone.  No interrupted dial tone indicating a message.  He had not called when the concert was over or when he safely arrived at his friend's house.  Two checkpoints skipped and it was now five-fifteen and I was full of adrenaline.  I called his cell -- straight to voice mail.  I called his friend's cell. Same.  I called his again. Same. 

I got dressed.  

"Don't go over there. It's too early, you'll wake everyone up," my husband sleep talks from the bed. 

"Uh-huh,” I agree as I pull my hair into a ponytail and start to wash my face. 

I called his cell again after I got my shoes on and headed for the back door.  Voicemail again. 

I'm pissed and a little scared.  Mom mode.  Odds are he just screwed up.  Of course his friend's mom or someone would have called if there were an accident.  Or an arrest.  Or he'd OD'd.  And then there was the possibility that his friend's mom was too distraught over the death of her own son to tell me about mine.  Or they hadn't found the body yet after the car went off the bridge.  All this ping- ponging through my uncaffeinated brain as I wind up the narrow redwood-lined road to the house where I was going to yank my brat kid from a warm bed to kick his ass.

I didn't knock or ring the bell.  I let myself in through the garden gate, and down the steps passed the pool to the first door.  I knocked and listened to the birds and noted that the sun hadn't yet come over Blithedale Ridge. My cell rings.  My husband, urging me to go get coffee, calm down and wait an hour before I barge in and embarrass our son. 

“Good idea,” I say. “OK.”

I knocked again and a sleepy teenager answered.  My guy was across the pool in the main house and I asked the boy if he would tell him that his mom was here.  When he came to the door he looked worried, and asked what was wrong. 

"You didn't call." 

"Yeah I did."

"No, you didn't.  Get your things and meet me in the car."  I thanked the sleepy messenger and walked back up to the street and waited for him.

He didn't waste time, threw his things in the back and got in the passenger seat barefoot and bleary eyed. He insisted that he had called after the show, at eleven, until I showed him my call log on my phone and asked to see his.  Nothing since nine p.m.  Then he says he was too caught up in the moment, that his phone, keys and jacket were rolled in a ball under the seat where he couldn't reach them. 

Excuses. 

I am so relieved to have him in the car and that he is whole and alive -- and so fucking pissed at him that I tear up when I say,  "You lied.  That is the part that disappoints me the most.  Why would you feel that you need to lie to me? You had an opportunity to establish a foundation of trust here. It was so easy. All you had to do is call and check in. I want you to go out in the world and be with friends and see music and have fun.  I want you to show me that you can do this and make good choices and be safe and check in.  I have to ask myself, what would cause you to not check in?  You are always so good about this.  And then you lie. That's the worst part." 

Now, my six-foot, two-inch, one hundred eight-five pound boy is shaking and tearing up and apologizing.  "I screwed up.  I'm sorry, but I swear I didn't drink or do drugs." 

I nod, "Well, fine.  But you also swore that you called.  So there's that." 

I'll never know why he didn't call.  I do know he'll at least think about it next time, and hopefully he will get it right.  That morning I made him sit with me at the Depot café and have coffee and chat for over an hour while the sun came up.  He was clearly uncomfortable and really didn't look too good.  I enjoyed that.  His leash has been drastically shortened and did he ever make a nice Mother's Day breakfast for me the next morning, complete with coffee just how I like it.  He volunteered to unload the dishwasher and asked if he could help me plant tomatoes.  He and his brother took me to see “Star Trek.”  He accepted his younger brothers’ ribbing about how “mom kicked your ass.”

Sadly, I know I'll do it again.

By Mary Allison Tierney

Labels: abandonment issues, call your mother, divorce, kiss his ass, lying, Mary Allison Tierney, voicemail

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Is it really so wrong that my three-year old son thinks his antibiotic medicine is peanut butter-flavored? That I, his mother whose duty includes teaching him right from wrong, has informed him of this, even though the medicine is actually that orange-flavored thick-coated stuff?

So I’ve lied. But it’s a white lie so it can’t possibly be so bad. Right?

Twice daily for 10 long days, as prescribed, I’m not having to force medicine into a clamped mouth while jousting the flailing appendages of a determined preschooler. My request is being met with “oooh, I like the peanut butter kind!” and a little mouth agape like a baby bird!

Before I do penance, I must confess that I’ve told my children, those same headstrong and impressionable young offspring of mine, white lies on more than a few occasions.

I’ve actually lied a lot.

White lies have informed the kids that the ice cream parlor is suddenly “closed” when proven inconvenient and that the computer “isn’t working” five minutes before bath.

Remember your Mom telling you if you eat spinach you’ll be as strong as Popeye? I just happen to stick in “tomorrow” for added enticement.

This week my first grader shared with her teacher how “Leo is our second Beta fish. Our first one missed his friends at Petco so Mommy returned him while I was at preschool.” Her teacher’s knowing glance was met with my impish shrug.

I didn’t have it in me to share with my little girl then that her fish died (Mom’s a fish killer!). But since then we’ve grieved over the loss of our beloved old cat, shared concern about Grandpa’s declining health, packed food for the hungry, and donated nearly new items to the needy.

My little white lies add convenience to small matters. And only small matters. Life’s harder truths are addressed openly and yes, honestly.

So, is it so wrong to lie that medicine may be peanut butter-flavored? That dinner is usually almost ready? That “we’re almost there!” at our destination when we’re actually not? I need a reprieve once in a while from the truth and frankly my Santa believing, tooth fairy anticipating kids do, too.

By Maija Threlkeld

Labels: cat, grandpa, lying, Maija Threlkeld, medicine, Santa, tooth fairy

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