So I call all the darlings, in such a way that surely they know there is trouble. I’m so great at disguising my feelings, right? They sulk over and I asked who did this. Of course none of them did it. So then I say if someone doesn’t speak up, you’ll all be punished. The two older darlings then blamed the baby, who wears a diaper, for shitting and wiping with Clorox wipes. This is annoying. So I say that whoever wiped their ass with Clorox wipes is probably going to get cancer on their ass, because the wipes are poison. There is only silence. The older darling is alarmed. I can tell right away he thinks he has cancer.
He has inherited Dave’s liar gene, and he suddenly admits that he did in fact poo, but didn’t put all those wipes in there. I’m struck immediately by how much he looks like Dave in this moment. So I calmly asked what he used to wipe. I know for a fact we were out of tp down there, because I was on the patio last night with a friend and used the last of it. Silence. He then says he checked his butt, and didn’t need to wipe. Really. I suppress my laughter and ask him to show me how he can see his butt. Because I can’t see mine. He smirks and knows he is caught. For punishment, he has to reach in and pull all the wipes out. We discuss the difference between Clorox wipes and the regular flushable wipes we use to wipe our butts with. (People, please tell me you use wipes! Because if you stepped in dogshit in your yard, you would not simply wipe it off with toilet paper.)
I’m suddenly in a panic that my kid is a liar. I flash forward to his teen years, and I’m chasing him through the streets with the police. He’s strung out on drugs and all he does is lie. Fuck you Dave, for never learning to tell the fucking truth.
This is what I’ve learned about lying, from living with a liar. Lying is about not being able to accept failure. And people need to be allowed to fail. I fucking fail every day at something. And every day it’s a new opportunity to learn how to do it better tomorrow. I didn’t scream at him. I don’t want him to be afraid to fail. More and more, I see how our responses to stress define who we are. If you can’t fail, then you already have. And you’re not even out the gate. If I am nothing, nothing, then I am at least honest. I’ve been called ‘honest to a fault’ many times. And I despise a liar as much as anything. I don’t really know another way to be. I don’t know what happened to make me this way. Maybe I’ve just failed so much that I’ve learned to embrace it. To laugh at it. To look at it as a gift. Because it can be. Because every failure is an opportunity. And I’m an opportunist. Life is less work that way. Ya hurd me?