They lied to me about Thanksgiving. And Santa. And a lot of other things, it turns out.
When I was growing up, they lied to me all the time. Parents, teachers, Sunday School leader: they were liars all. When I was angry because I was a teenager, I focused some of that rage on the lying. How could they have been less than honest?
Now I have a five-year-old kid. And I am SUCH a liar. I lie about Thanksgiving. I even go along with it when his school tries to pull off “Anti-Bully Week” messaging in conjunction with the Pilgrim story. Irony much?
I lie about Santa. He’s for real, yo! I make up stories about the man in the moon and what happens to little boys who don’t eat their vegetables. I tell tall tales whenever it suits me. Because it.is.so.fabulous.
I had no idea how much fun it would make life to lie until my pants catch fire. So I do. You can judge me. It’s only fair. But I’m not stopping.
One day, he’ll figure it all out. Kids always do. He’ll know about the Great American Land Theft and the ocean at the North Pole. He’ll realize the moon is nothing but a very cold rock.
Maybe he’ll also know about the magic of a story. Hopefully, he’ll also see the joy of wonderment in a child’s eyes. Then, possibly, he’ll be a liar too.