Liar, Liar

Parenthood turned me into a world-class liar.  I didn't even wait for Eric's birth to begin my new hobby.   Just hours before Eric came into the world, I'd learned the value of a bald-faced lie.  That lesson came when the nurse leaned over my hospital bed and asked me if I was okay with having a Ceasarean. 

"Absolutely," I said.

Now, why on earth would a person willingly sign up for the pain and expense that come from such a brutal procedure?  Because, right there, underneath the stiff sheets with their hospital corners coming loose, I had learned a universal truth.  Sometimes we lie so that others--usually, much smarter others--can do what is best for us.

Assuming that a surgical procedure to remove my son represented the first moments of parenthood for me, then my second lie as a parent came within the hour.  This time, though, we all lied a bit.  Every last person in that room.

Moments after ruining my bikini line for life, the doctor held up Eric Carlson Holt for my first official inspection. 

"Isn't he beautiful?" they all cried.

"Oh, yes," I lied. 

Between you and me, the kid looked like a stewed tomato two weeks past its shelf life.  But everyone in there knew the importance of their uttered untruth.  They knew how vital it was for me to bond to Eric, and Eric to bond to me.  And so, they lied.  And I lied in response.

A funny thing happened, though.  Despite his initial, kooky looks, within hours, Eric had grown into a fine-looking human being, one I could not take my eyes off of. 

The lies have come swiftly ever since.

"Have a great day--you're going to love school!"  "I love that drawing!"  "Yes, I like your outfit."  "She's a very nice girl.  Of course she can spend the night."

Some days, I lie more often than I breathe, that's how important this parental tool has become to me.  I lie because I know the truth--that school will be hard, that there is no way on earth that thing on your paper is a horse, that I have no idea what real fashion is, that I cannot stand that simpering child but she seems to be important to you.

I already know that I'll be lying in about 20 minutes, when I take Allison and another girl to school this morning.  This girl has become a malfunctioning mood ring in my daughter's life and I'm not thrilled they've made up and are trying to play nice again.  Still, when we pull up and I honk the horn, I know that the next thing I'll say is how nice it is to see her again.  Sure, there's a small part of me that really means that.  Most of me, though, would like to utter "You mess with my daughter again and I WILL FIND YOU!" 

So, why will I lie? 

Because I have faith in the world.  Because I know that we are all a bunch of screw ups who trip along through our days, leaving emotional wounds and physical scars along the way.  I know that, sometimes, a bald-faced lie--told despite everything we know--can go a long way to building a bridge, however precarious its trestles. 

And I'll take an unsteady bridge over a lonely island any day.