It’s not that Monkey Boy lies. It’s that his version of the truth makes me sound like a lunatic.
This morning he saw me taking my allergy medication and asked me about it. We had the talk about how he should never take medicine that doesn’t belong to him because it could make him sick. He got worried I might get sick. I told him everything would be fine as long as Mommy takes her medicine, and Monkey Boy takes his medicine. We just can’t mix them up. All was well.
I was feeling like a perfectly respectable parent… until I dropped him off at school. He looked up at his teacher with his big brown eyes and told her, “Everything is fine as long as Mommy takes her medicine.” I stammered and tried to explain our conversation. But I’m pretty sure I’m suspect now.
This is not the first time he’s done this to me. Awhile back, I found a box of my old toys in the attic. I pulled them down because Monkey Boy was about the right age for them. He saw the box in my closet. I told him to leave it alone because I hadn’t had a chance to wash the toys after quite literally decades in storage. When I dropped him off at school that day, he told his gray-haired, Pentecostal teacher, “Mommy has a box of dirty toys in her closet, but she won’t let me play with them.”
Somehow I knew there was nothing I could do to make that better. So I said the only thing a person can in that situation, “Have a good day!” And left.