Wednesday, 30 January 2013

The truth, the whole truth, and nothing near the truth.

I would just like to clarify that, no matter what you may hear to the contrary, I do NOT have hairy boobs. That statement does have context by the way, more on that later.

I really dislike lying; I think it's incredibly disrespectful and for the most part it's unnecessary. Obviously there are times when a small white lie is called for and goodness only knows I'd be fibbing if I said I'd never fibbed, but the vast majority of lies are harmful and used for self-preservation rather than to spare someone elses feelings. It's pretty hard feeling so strongly about this when I have a daughter who is a compulsive fibber. That girl would swear blind she'd not got a hole in her bum and the sky was pink.  She's not been too bad of late to be fair to her, but we went through a period of months where barely a true word left her little mouth.  Like the time I found that some of my sweets had disappeared and had mysteriously shed their wrappers under The Daughters pillow. Obviously she had no idea how they got there. Similarly no idea about how the toilet seat got broken or red felt tip got on her bedsheets or how a big piece of lettuce covered in mayonnaise ended up under the table. And the most frustrating bit is that she never admits to anything, unless she literally has no choice. That girl holds up so well to questioning that I start to believe she's had some kind of formal interrogation training; I could tie her to a chair, shine a light in her eyes, and force her to watch News24 for days on end, and she'd still not crack and admit that it was her who stuck the Buzz Lightyear sticker on the back of the dining chair.

There must be a clear line, somewhere between The Boychild's age and The Daughter's age, where sweet and innocent becomes cynical and wily because as of yet - at three and a half - he hasn't learnt to lie. The other day I went into the hall to find the curtains, still attached to the curtain pole, lying on the floor. "Charlie" I asked him, "Did you pull the curtains down?" Without a second of hesitation he said "Yep", as though I'd just asked him if he liked kittens.

Of course, by some strange irony, while she is so stubborn when it comes to owning up, when it comes to things you actually want keeping on the QT, they're fair game for the world to hear. For example, The Boychild has been having some problems in the toilet department. And by that I mean he can't poo. Actually, he WON'T poo. And after a week of him sitting on the loo for hours putting more effort into wailing than into pooing, I went and bought some suppositories to try and get the poo bomb to explode. The Daughter went and told a load of her friends at school about her poor brothers misfortune and was most disgruntled when they laughed! I tried to explain that some things should be private, but heaven knows if it got through. And thus we arrive back at my (un)hairy boobs. Apparently she was insisting a few days ago to The Husband that Mummy has hairy boobs, and wouldn't accept otherwise. I was getting dressed yesterday when she looked me up and down and said "I told Daddy your boobs were hairy but they're not! It's just your bum!" And I was - and still am - too afraid to ask if she'd seen fit to divulge this information to her school friends. So if any of you should hear any such rumours about my hirsuteness, it came from The Daughter - and you can't believe a word she says..!!

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