I Taught My Kids How to Lie
The author and her son, Max. (Photo: Jaime Primak Sullivan)
“Mom, will you read me this book?” my son Max yells from his bedroom.
It’s a typical night at home, meaning I’m down the hall in Charlie’s room wrestling her into her pajamas while Olivia cries out from her room that she can’t find her toothbrush. I call back to Max, “Yes, just let me get the girls settled,” and at the time, I probably mean it.
But fast-forward 40 minutes — girls’ teeth brushed, outfits laid out, prayers said, and goodnight kisses given — and I am spent. I walk into Max’s room and he pops up in his bed with his favorite book in hand. “I’m ready,” he squeals. But I’m not. I just don’t have it in me tonight. All I can think about is the lunches that have to be made and the laundry that needs folding, not to mention the work emails that are still unanswered.
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“It’s too late, buddy,” I say as I lay him back down and pull the covers up.
He pops back up. “But you said!” he insists.
And he’s right, I did.
But I don’t budge. Eventually he recedes, disappointed, and lies back down. I kiss him and promise to read it in the morning, though I know I won’t. Morning will come and I will wrestle the girls into their uniforms, fight through the tangles in their hair and race to get everyone in the car on time. As I fold clothes later that night, my guilty mommy voice taunts me: “Liar! You failed him again.” I tear up, but there’s no time for that. I tell myself I’ll be better tomorrow and I keep folding.
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A few days later I ask Max to get my phone and call his grandmother for her birthday. “OK, mommy,” he says happily. I go back to packing backpacks. When I check on him a few minutes later, he’s right where I left him.
“Max, buddy, did you call grandma?”
He looks up at me. “Um, yep,” he says semi-convincingly.
Later that day when I speak to my mom I learn that Max never called. When I find him again, playing with Legos in the basement, I question him, now losing my patience. “Max,” I ask, “why did you tell me you called Grandma if you knew you didn’t? Why would you lie to me?”
His response takes my breath away: “Well, you said you were going to read me my book and you didn’t and that’s a lie, so I said I called Grandma but I didn’t.”
And there it was.
He knew he didn’t call her, and he knew how to lie it away. I was angry, but how could I be? He learned the behavior from me. And sadly, this is just one example — so often I say “maybe” when I mean “no”; I promise, “next time” when I know there won’t be a next time; or I suggest that whatever toy they’re pleading for can be purchased for their next birthday while secretly hoping they’ll forget about it by then. I don’t think I’ve realized how closely my children have been watching this behavior — and I’m not alone, according to a recent study about kids who tell fibs, which revealed that adults lie in approximately a fifth of their social exchanges lasting 10 minutes or longer.
Still, trust and truth are the foundations of our home. I stress honesty at all costs with my children. So why, then, do I lie? I do it to avoid the short-term conflict, meltdown, and disappointment — the same reasons I would imagine most parents do. But I can’t help but worry that perhaps it’s caused a more long-term bad habit. Have my children learned that to avoid disappointing someone, it’s easier to lie? Now that I’m fully aware of the lasting effects of my behavior, I am making an effort to say no when I mean no and deal with the fallout. Perhaps they may even learn that sometimes in life you have to hear the word no, and that’s okay. I just hope it’s not too late.
Jaime’s digital series #cawfeetawk can be seen daily on her Facebook page and YouTube channel.
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