Look, I love my kid. If I didn’t I probably wouldn’t devote most of my days to documenting his every move. When I’m not writing somewhere on the internet about the exciting or even the mundane goings-on in his life, I’m snapping photos of him while he’s coloring or even just eating a banana on the couch.
Okay, maybe I have a problem or the beginnings of a promising career as a paparazzo. Either way, you get it. I’m into my kid. Now that that’s out of the way, I need to confess something. Come closer. I want to whisper this.
Lately, my kid is kind of a storyteller. No, wait. That’s not right. My kid is, well, a liar.
You see, even though I found an open marker in his room and his sister was downstairs for hours before I discovered the drawing on the wall of his room, it was Danica that did the evil deed. He promises, you guys. And that stain on the carpet? The dog did it, the dog who overcomes his lack of opposable thumbs to enjoy a tall glass of fruit punch in a Buzz Lightyear cup.
Don’t even get me started on the endless crimes committed by his favorite stuffed animal. Poor Anders was helpless to stop his lovey from sneaking a bag of cookies to his room without permission and gobbling them all up.
If my kid were Pinocchio, his nose would span the continental U.S. by now.
The problem is he is not just a liar, but a stubborn liar, devoted to his (many) stories. Discussions so far on why lying is wrong have only been met with denial. I’m hoping that this is a phase that will pass. In the mean time, he’s spending a lot of time being punished for crimes he swears were committed by his sister in partnership with a league of stuffed animals.