By Tim Sanders

In a July 1 article in the UK Telegraph, Science Correspondent Richard Gray presented some interesting research results.

I read that article all the way through, and it confirmed something I already knew: The British love funny words. They call cookie jars "biscuit tins," say "learnt" instead of learned, and spell behavioral "behavioural."

And Gray’s article confirmed something else I already knew. As his title indicated, "Babies [are] not as innocent as they pretend."

The article stated: "Until now, psychologists had thought the developing brains were not capable of the difficult art of lying until four years old."

But according to Dr. Vasudevi (pronounced ‘Tiffany’) Reddy, who is a "behavioural" expert at the University of Portsmouth: "Infants begin to lie from as young as six months. Simple fibs help train them for more complex deceptions in later life."

What Dr. Reddy refers to as "simple fibs" are actually deliberate acts aimed at deceiving adults.

It’s not as if a three-month-old would sit up in his crib, hitch up his diaper and announce to his parents "No indeed, I have most certainly not been smoking cigarettes while you were in the living room ignoring me! Some other baby left that Marlboro smoldering on the floor!" It’s much more subtle than that. Like, for example, when a baby cries, waits to see if anyone is approaching, tries it again, waits, and then turns up the volume until somebody, convinced that the poor infant is suffering serious physical pain, comes running to shower him with attention.

Actually, I began to lie when I was much younger than six months. I think it was nature’s way of preparing me to become a journalist. When I was just three days old, I noticed that when I expressed discomfort, the attendants in the hospital nursery would pick me up, cuddle me and coo at me. There was one particular nurse, an attractive young lady who smelled a lot like strained carrots, of whom I was especially fond. So when she was in the vicinity I would complain loudly as though I was colicky, even when I wasn’t. It was a relatively harmless lie, but it worked, and she picked me up quite often to burp me. (I could even fake a burp or two in those early days.) There was another nurse, an older woman with a mustache, and sardines on her breath, whom I didn’t care for. So when she was in the room, even if I felt especially gassy, I wouldn’t let on. On those rare occasions when I couldn’t control myself and had to belch, I would look accusingly at the baby in the bassinet next to mine. It was another little lie that accomplished the desired results.

I was put up for adoption (although I still contend my personality had nothing to do with it) and was leased out to a children’s home in Muskegon, Michigan. By the time I was ten months old, I had become very selective when it came to prospective parents. When a couple I didn’t particularly care for would look me over, I knew enough to screw up my face, turn very red, grunt like a little Chester White hog and poop in my diaper. It didn’t present me in a positive light, and I knew it. When my Mom and Dad arrived on that sunny May day, I believe it was on a Saturday, I immediately liked them. I’d heard the lady from the adoption agency tell the lady who ran the children’s home that Dad was a minister, so I made a point of smiling and waving my chubby little arms about as though I were directing a choir. I did not poop in my diaper, nor did I make any disgusting baby noises, and both Mom and Dad were duly impressed. I even managed to take Dad’s fountain pen from his pocket and stick it part way up my nose. This convinced Mom that I had literary talent, and the deal was made.

By the time I was a year old, I was well aware that Mom was quite proficient with the rectal thermometer. In those days it was the medical instrument of choice where babies were concerned, and at the slightest hint of illness, Mom would fetch that damnable thing. It made no difference if I was teething, suffering from thrush, or simply had a minor case of diaper rash, Mom’s first instinct was to go in search of the Vaseline and the thermometer. I despised that tool of the devil, and learned that even if I thought I was languishing at death’s door, I was well advised not to show any signs of illness. It was a subtle misrepresentation, and it planted the seeds of thermometer deception in my little brain.

By the time I was in grade school, and wanted to stay home and either avoid a test for which I wasn’t prepared or just watch TV, my thermometer strategy changed. I guess Dr. Reddy would say it had become more complex. I would complain of dizziness or fever, and Mom would bring the thermometer. By then I’d graduated to the oral thermometer, and I would remove it from my mouth when Mom wasn’t looking and set it on the floor atop the hot air duct. In this way I could be running a life-threatening fever, sometimes as high as 119, in no time at all. After I found that a less extravagant reading, say 101, was more believable and would not require hospitalization, the ruse worked fairly well.

I don’t know how many of my early childhood lies actually fooled my parents, but I assume many of them did. I assume that because if they’d realized I was a pathological liar at such an early age, I’m sure they’d have encouraged my prevarications, cultivated my raw talent, and hired a fabrication specialist to help me hone my skills. I suppose a county commissioner out on bail, or a recently paroled judge would have made an excellent tutor. With the right kind of support early on, today I could be a professional, major league liar -- you know, an unindicted congressman or a governor of interest -- rather than a lowly, minor league humor columnist.