June 15, 2009
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Everyday stories of parental madness
The Family Guy But I have no real excuse. My mom would ask me a point-blank question and the next thing I knew, when I opened my mouth, all these lies spilled out like a science fair volcano. I couldn't help myself. Compounding the problem was the fact that I wasn't very good at it. But lying for me was like Golden Flake potato chips – I couldn't tell just one. I told stupid lies: “No Mom, I don't know who carved KISS into my new dresser.” I told lies of necessity: “No Mom, I don't know how that dent got in your car.” I told lies out of laziness: “Yes Mom, I vacuumed the living room. Tracks? Why aren't their tracks from the vacuum cleaner? Uh, I vacuumed twice so I must've covered up the tracks.” I even told filthy lies that could've ruined my life. After being sent into the bathroom to bathe, I'd sit naked on the toilet for half an hour – running the water, fogging up the mirror, splashing my hands together, dunking the wash cloth until it was good and wet – just to create the illusion of getting clean. Then I'd walk out into cool hallway enveloped in a cloud of steam to be greeted by my understandably suspicious mother. “Did you take a bath,” she asks. “Of course,” I answer, as if it were the dumbest question ever. “Did you use soap,” she'd reply, brushing past me before running her fingers across an obviously dry bar of Irish Spring. “Uh …” And the whole process would start over again. But with this Mom likely saved me from years of humiliation because we all know that once you become known as The Smelly Kid, forever The Smelly Kid you shall remain. At your funeral, while the pastor recites all of your good deeds – feeding the homeless, saving the rainforests, curing disease, solving a Rubik's Cube – someone in the back of the crowd will lean in and whisper, “Remember how he always smelled like feet and old money?” And still I lied. But Mom would have her revenge, leveling the curse upon me that has worked for countless generations of angry mothers. “Someday, young man, you'll have children and I hope they lie to you like you've lied to me.” That day has come. Though we don't share DNA, I fear it's The Diva, my precocious 12-year-old stepdaughter, who has picked up my verbally sociopathic tendencies. We, like many “tweener” parents, constantly struggle with the cell phone and the inherent right for all-night texting. It's become The Diva's favorite appendage. All she needs now is a pair of dueling thumbs and the chance to slaughter the English language, having abolished all use of vowels in her correspondence, and she's good to go for hours on end. But this is a parent's greatest weapon – give a kid something they can't live without and force them to live under the threat of having it taken away. And like most vigilant parents, we have enacted a dizzying set of rules, amendments and just-because-I-said-so caveats to keep the cell phone compulsion at a minimum. Among these is the 11 p.m. curfew. So the other night, at 11 p.m., I remind The Diva it was time to say goodnight. Then, 20 minutes later, I do the follow up: “Did you turn your phone off?” “Yes,” she answers sweetly. “I'm going to bed.” The child watches me go into my office – the office right next to her room. Then, not four minutes later, I hear this same child giggling and gossiping louder than a carnival barker. For a long moment, I sat and listened in utter disbelief. She had lied to me. She looked me square in the face and lied, knowing that I was sitting right next door. Dummy! Flashback … Flashback. Danger, Will Robinson. Danger. After several deep, meditative breathes, I burst into the room without knocking and simply stared. Having the good sense to hang up without saying goodbye, we just looked at each other – neither blinking. “You told me you'd turned the phone off,” I said. “I did, but then I thought you were talking about Alabama time … it's only 10 o'clock there, ya know. So I turned it back on. Technically, I didn't lie.” Parenting, much like history, has a funny way of repeating itself. Brett Buckner is an award-winning former columnist for the Anniston Star. He lives in Columbus, Ga. with his wife, daughter and stepdaughter. His humor column appears regularly in The Post. Contract Brett at brett.buckner@yahoo.com. |