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Little White Tales

by Alan R. Wolcott

In lecture after lecture the kids have heard that truthfulness is mandatory: “Trust depends on truth. So when you don’t tell us the truth we can’t trust you.” Recently I’ve noticed that truth is relative—relative to the age of the child. Until they were 5 or so we had no problems. Now that they think and ask irritating questions...

Anyone with kids over 5 is a liar.

Sure it starts honestly enough. December 24th the pre-Ks trundle off to bed with visions of sugarplums. To complete the night before Christmas reverie, it is a simple matter to thump on the wall a couple times, briefly shake the sleigh bells and utter a well placed, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” Next morning there are tales of Santa and evidence of his appearing. No questions ventured, no prevarications.

Easter provides similar ingenuity. This year a friend placed a carefully manicured carrot—she had carved dental marks in it—near her five-year-old’s basket of treats. She never said there was an “Easter Bunny.” But then she didn’t have to; James had all the proof he needed. Eggs + basket + chawed carrot = ? !

In primary school necessity becomes the mother of distraction. Few parents are known to advocate eructation or flatulence. At our house these noises are routinely met with a contemptuous glare and the demand: “What do you say?!” But how is a gaseous man to cope, in his own kingdom? Strategic pinches, loud hacking coughs, sudden bursting into song, and table pounding are how to spell relief.

It’s even tougher now that they don’t crash the instant they hit the sack. There have been times that all is quiet until we douse the last light. Then someone has to do the night watchman thing, “Mom, I can’t go to sleep.” We’ve taken to locking the door, hoping the varmints will take the hint if they decide to sleep walk. To the trembling inquiry, “Why did you lock the door? What are you doing?” I’ve wanted to growl, “Playing with the erector set” but my wife says that won’t work much longer. Junior highers start to recognize innuendo.

And maybe it’s not athletic prowess which dads find so interesting when Sports Illustrated puts February “swimmers” on display? If my older son hadn’t been standing beside me at the checkout line when I got a gallon of milk the other day maybe I could be a little more definitive here.

“No, son, I’m not sure that’s actually for swimming. I think it makes her look like a bunny, don’t you?”

Actually all she needed was the ears and it could have been another magazine. “Hunh?” he said.

“Hop on out of here!”