Truth Serum

I don’t believe in lying to my child. I pretty much stick with honesty as the best policy. Yes, the shots will hurt. It is possible you may cry. That is your vagina. It is not a hoo-ha, thingy, whatnot, or even your privates. You have a vagina and you have elbows. I fear it’s a dangerous downward spiral because where do you stop? Some day she will figure out if I am lying to her and I don’t want that someday to come without me noticing. It would be horrible for me to have my daughter think I am a liar.

Before you think me some over –truth-telling weirdo, what I am talking about here is not little white lies. To what I am referring is the “big” stuff. I am not sure how I know what’s big and what is little. I just do, okay?

This past Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, was a trying one for me. I had a cold coming on, a bratty child, too much housekeeping to do as we had plans at our home for Saturday night and two dogs running about who were desperately in need of some exercise. By the time we sat down for dinner, I was spent. Bread wanted coffee with dinner so as he could get a decent caffeine buzz and be able to stay up past nine. He is such a sissy. I mean, he had only been up since four in the morning. Geez.

Every meal we eat, and I mean every, I have to answer the following questions from my child: What are we having for dinner? Did I have that before? When did I have it? Did I eat it or did I spit it out? What is it? Who was here when we ate that? This is because we allow her to choose what she eats for breakfast and lunch, within reason. It has to be somewhat healthy and must be accompanied by a fruit or vegetable. Dinner is a different story. This is what we have. You must try it. End of story.

Okay, so Wednesday night was pizza. Bird knows she loves pizza so there weren’t any questions. But, what she wanted to know about was Thanksgiving dinner. The battle had already begun. Next, she wanted some kid coffee. After about four times of her asking, I grabbed the pot and pretended to pour it in her milk glass. That was met with chants of, “You didn’t even pour anything in there! This is not kid coffee. You didn’t add it! It’s just milk.”

Now, patience is not my strong suit. I don’t have much of it and I try. Sometimes deep breathing will help me but not when I am hungry, cold tired, and ready for some elastic pants and a horizontal position in front of the television. So, I informed her I never put anything in her kid coffee, I always pretend or maybe give her some chocolate milk. I asked her to move on and please eat her dinner (at least I was polite). Bread said nothing. He didn’t even make eye contact. I looked at him. I dared him. I also dare him, on a fairly regular basis to try stay-at-home parenthood. He has, thus far, failed to take me up on that offer.

Later, when I was in a better mood, he informed me, during my rant about the coffee he was expecting me to shout, “AND, Santa isn’t real either.” I laughed about this. I mean, I wouldn’t do that. I’m not that cruel. Give me a break.

This brings us to last night. We were on our way home from IKEA. If you’ve ever been there on a weekend, you know what this is like. We were tired from the long holiday weekend and ready to be done. But, our trip was with purpose. We needed parts for the big-girl bed we were assembling for Bird. Knowing we had to go home and finish that was daunting. Bird was in a mood. So was Bird’s mom. That’s me if you aren’t that quick. Bird sees Chuck E. Cheese which she is obsessed with because they play stupid commercials during the shows she watches. They make the place look fun, cool and highly sanitary. I beg to differ. I am a germaphobe. That shit is nasty. I guarantee it. The ball pit is nothing but a feces-infested cesspool.

Bird shouts, “I see Chuck E. Cheese! I see it! Can we go there?”

I responded with, “No! No!”

She continues, “But why not? Why can’t we go there? Can we go another day?”

Me: “Not today, not tomorrow, never.” We are never going there. It is filthy and disgusting. You will catch a disease.”

Bread interjects with, “You will never go to Chuck E. Cheese. Kid coffee is nothing but stuff you always drink and S-A-N-T-A isn’t real.”

Bread's statement was followed by uncontrollable laughter from me. Holy shit. I am fucking crazy.

Joe

My child has an imaginary friend. Now, before you go all therapist on me, stating she only has said “friend” because she is, thus far, an only child and she is creating a sibling for herself, I will tell you to shut it. I had two brothers and an imaginary friend named Bobby who lived in my mouth. I distinctly remember sitting on the floor by the heat register talking to him. So, even having two siblings I did not choose, I wanted something else. Point being, we don’t get to pick and even if we could, it doesn’t always work out the way we want. If we are going to psycho-analyze this shit, I clearly wanted different brothers. I wanted siblings who were normal and did not pull the head off my Barbie. Nothing weird here, move along, people, move along.

So, Bird’s buddy, Joe is constantly a subject in our home. I haven’t squashed her imagination by telling her that he doesn’t actually exist. She is happy. She likes him. They play nicely together. Sometimes they run around the living room together. Besides, I know full-blown adults with more troublesome delusions than a faux friend and nobody is telling them the “truth.” If they can carry on, so can Bird. I am not going to ruin this one for her.

We never know when Joe is around or not. He leaves. He comes back. He goes to work! I like this! She is befriending functional members of society! He used to work at Walmart. Now, he works at Nino’s (a local higher-end grocery store). One could say Joe is moving up in the world, climbing the career ladder, if you will. He probably makes way more money at Nino’s. Actually, that’s not true because it turns out he does not get paid in cash. Rather, they pay him it meat. Of course! Work for eight hours, take home tenderloin! Genius. I wonder if he sells his meat on the black market?

What else have we learned about Joe? He has a ponytail. I don’t like this. I am frowning on her befriending boys with long hair. This style is out. I hope he’s not a delinquent. If he has tattoos and piercings we are out. OMG. What if he trades the meat for drugs?

But seriously, where in the hell did this come from? Last weekend, Bird was with my mom. She said something my mom couldn’t make out. When questioned as to what she said, her response was, “I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to Joe.” Oh! Of course you are! Excuse the bleep out of me.