Lies and Love
An excerpt from We're All Just Doing Our Best
The following is a chapter from my book titled We’re All Just Doing Our Best
The key to being a good parent is being a good liar. Before embarking on this journey of keeping a little human alive, I had no idea. Nobody told me ahead of time. Not my mom. Not my grandparents. Not my brother, who had been a parent long before I had a child. Perhaps it’s an unspoken rite of passage. If you’re a parent, you’re probably a great liar yourself. If you’re not a parent, allow me to explain.
Today, I was washing dishes at the sink and noticed an ant walking around on the tile near the backsplash. Then I saw another. And another. Before long, I noticed a whole platoon of them. I’m not sure if that’s the scientific name for a group of ants, but I think it has a nice ring to it. A platoon. Like they’re soldiers marching along with little Army helmets on. Anyway, I leaned in closer to have a good look. Part of me was appalled that creepy crawly bugs were inside my house. The other part of me was confused as I wondered how they were getting inside. At that moment, my eight-year-old daughter Sky asked, “What are you looking at, Dad?”
“Oh, nothing. I just thought I saw a breadcrumb… or something.”
She didn’t respond. She didn’t even look up from the TV show she was watching. She just took my response at face value, assuming her dad was an honest man who speaks the truth. From my perspective, I had to lie. The alternative was having her know that bugs were in the house. Bugs! Things with six legs that should be outside crawling through tunnels in the dirt.
She would have completely freaked out. Anxiety and paranoia would consume her, and she’d refuse to go near the sink lest she spot a creepy-crawly ant. Consequently, she’d stop drinking water altogether, becoming severely dehydrated. I’d take her to the hospital where they would blame me, the parent, for not properly caring for my child… all because I told the truth instead of lying about the ants.
Who needs that kind of headache? So, I lied. I do it all the time. It’s become a knee-jerk reaction. It’s something I do automatically without even thinking – kind of like breathing.
Sky asked, “Dad, will the Earth get hit by another asteroid that will make us go extinct like the dinosaurs?”
I told her no, even though there’s a damn good chance of it happening at some point in the future.
In February, she asked, “Dad, where’s my Halloween candy? Can I have some?”
I explained that I had to throw it away in December because it expired. This is what I call a truth/lie hybrid. I did throw away the Halloween candy in December. But it was not expired. I tossed it out because we’re watching our sugar intake. Halloween candy mixed with Christmas cookies is just too much. If she consumed both, she’d end up hyper and manic – like one of Santa’s elves who’d snorted a line of sugar after missing a dose of ADHD medication.
The lies are endless.
“Dad, slow down. Why are you speeding?”
“I’m not. They changed the speed limit on this street last week,” I’ll say.
“Dad, what if a tornado comes right towards our house?”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. They moved Tornado Alley further east. We don’t get them here in Nebraska anymore.”
“Dad, is my fish dead?”
“Nah, he’s probably just taking a nap.”
“Will you die someday, Dad?”
“Oh, sweetie, don’t even worry about that. I’m pretty sure I’ll live for at least 300 more years. In fact, I might be immortal.”
“Dad, are there monsters in my closet?”
“No, Sky, there are no such things as monsters.”
“But you believe in Bigfoot, and he’s a monster. You even look for him when you hike in the woods,” she’ll say.
“Oh, um, he’s not a monster. He’s just lost and needs help finding his family.”
Sometimes, the wheels come off quickly, and my wagon full of lies careens into a canyon full of manure. I think she knows it, too. Her follow-up questions are laced with suspicion and skepticism. I don’t lie to my daughter for fun. It’s not for pleasure, and it’s not for sport. I do it to prevent her from worrying, from freaking out, from having anxiety about things she can’t control.
Being a parent is hard. It’s tricky to find a balance between easing them into the brutal reality of this world versus keeping them in a safe little bubble where magic still exists. The truth is, sometimes I do speed a little bit when we’re running late to musical theater rehearsal. There are tornados in Nebraska. Fish die all the time. I’m not immortal, and monsters are real. They don’t hide in closets, though. They walk among the rest of us in the form of kidnappers, murderers, narcissists, and people who sit through an entire green light because they’re too distracted texting.
I try to be honest. I really do. I suppose lies are merely the price of admission for this thrill ride known as Parenthood. Lies are the byproduct of caring so much… for loving another human so completely that I want her mind to rest easy when she sleeps at night.
As for the ants, I suppose I’ll stop at the store later and buy some ant traps. They’re simple contraptions. The ants walk into the trap. They bite off little chunks of the bait while thinking it’s food when, in reality, it’s poison. They share the “food” with their platoon. Then, they all die. Suddenly, my kitchen sink area is free of ants. It’s straightforward.
If Sky sees the traps, she’ll probably ask what they are. That would leave me with two options. I could tell her the truth and hope she doesn’t cry at the thought of me murdering helpless insects. Or, I could lie and tell her the traps are a catch-and-release type of deal.
Either way, I can attest that parenting isn’t easy. No one is ever truly ready for this journey. We’re all just doing our best… hoping that unconditional love will balance out any blunders we make along the way. Despite the occasional lies, being Sky’s dad is the most rewarding adventure I’ve ever embarked on. And that’s the truth.
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-Andy Myers