Daddy: "What are you doing pick?"
Isobel: "Just looking."
Daddy: "Looking at what?"
Isobel: "Myself."
Daddy: "You know vanity is a sin?"
Isobel: "What!?"
Daddy: "Skip it. What's that?"
Isobel: "What's what?"
Daddy: "Down your shirt?"
Isobel: The headphones."
Daddy: "Umm, why?"
Isobel: "I'm pretending they're my boobies."
I'd like to think I'm pretty easy going. I don't have a lot of rules of behaviour as far as the kids go. There are the big ones, the common sense ones. Don't steal, don't bully, be polite, please and thank-you. You know, the ones we all grew up with. I have one BIG one, one golden rule if you will. Don't lie, especially to me...well either of the parents but especially me. Lying to your family is a really shitty thing to do. If you expect me to stick by you through thick and thin, then have the decency to always be honest with me. I don't care a tinker's ass about lying to your friends or other adults but don't lie to me.
Now having pontificated all of that, I also hate being The Heavy..the punisher or the shouter. Really I do. Yes I shout (we all do around here, people must think we're all deaf ) but I almost instantly feel crappy about it and will go to great lengths to make sure neither I nor the kids feel bad about any shouting for more than a few minutes after. I blow my stack, calm down and we get ice cream or a new T.V.
The other night my hand was forced and as much as I didn't want to, I came in as The Heavy. I caught Izzy in a lie. Not a big one and that was the first thing that crossed my mind. 'It's not a big deal, I could just let this go.' But then again I thought she knows the difference between right and wrong-she knows what is a lie and what is the truth. I didn't shout, I don't think I really even raised my voice.
"You need to go upstairs for a while," I said. "Stay up there until I tell you to come down."
Now here's the thing. There were no tears. No look of hurt or pleading of innocence. She had a look on her face of quiet acceptance. I imagine it is much the same look prisoners have as they walk the last mile.
One thing we have learned very quickly is that our Isobel cannot lie to save her life. If there were an award for ratting yourself out mid lie, Isobel would have gotten the Nobel prize years ago. She cannot make it through a lie at all BUT she kept a straight face pretty much the whole time I questioned her about the lie the other night. Maybe that's why it was a bigger deal or why I needed to let her know I busted her. I caught her in a lie and I felt like shit for it.
There was no stomping or slamming of doors from her room, from the sound of it, she sat on her bed and waited as the clock ticked down and I called her back downstairs. I waited as long as I could stand it and called her back down. I wasn't mad, I was disappointed and I tried to have a look on my face that portrayed disappointment. Truth is folks I spent many years in Rock and Roll bands having my picture taken trying to look as cool and nonchalant as possible. I have two expressions-pissed off and marginally less pissed off. She, understandably was less than eager to speak with me.
"I'm not mad at you." I said.
"You're not?" she asked in disbelief.
"No I'm not, I am very disappointed however."
She stared at me for a bit and then her gaze started to wander.
"Do you know what I mean when I say I'm disappointed?"
"Yes," she began. "No, not really."Ahh, the dreaded D word. My parents could kick me in the stones and tell me they ran over the dog in the driveway and then tell my best friend we were moving and that I never really liked him anyway. I still wouldn't feel as bad as I would if my Grandmother told me she was disappointed in something I had done.
"I mean that you hurt me, hurt my feelings by lying to me. I don't like to be lied to. Not by my kids, because I will never lie to you."
"Hey I do know what it means!" she said proudly.
I bit my lip and tried to remember what this was about.
"Go watch T.V. or something before I send you back to your room."
I didn't and had no intention of punishing her further...or at all? (Mrs. Narrator and I agree that being sent to your room was never much of a punishment...all of your coolest stuff is in there anyway). I finished the dishes and just kind of thought about the events. I came to a realization. I wasn't ever mad or really even that disappointed. Sending her to her room was more of a knee jerk reaction than an actual corrective action. No not mad, sad. Not because she told a lie but because she felt there was something she needed to conceal from me and in the few minutes that it took for the lie to leave her lips, a tiny fragment of he childhood fell away and her growing up started to peek through...
There are times when Dad will still do. Tonight was one of those times. I am still a little fuzzy on the particulars but she came into the room I was sitting in, wincing and limping.
"What happened?" I asked.
The tears were very real and really very big. They must have made gigantic splashing and sloshing noises as they rolled off her nose and hit the floor but I confess I couldn't hear them over the weeping explanation of what happened. I still don't know. There was however, I scratch, about an inch long, across her thigh.
"I...s...sc...scratched my...leg...on the...pimple taker." she sobbed.
"You what?" I asked.
"I scratched my leg on the printer table."
"Well that makes a whole hell of a lot more sense." I said still thinking about the logistics of a pimple taker. "How did you do that?"
Not the best choice of questions. The resulting answer was more full of sobs and soggy indignation, than actual words.
"OK, let's get you cleaned up."
She declined a band aid. What? A kid that doesn't want a band aid? We settled on peroxide and a little unguent.
"There you go," I said. "Best care anywhere."
"Wait, what?" she asked.
"I said, Best care anywhere."
"Really?" she asked. "Are you really the best care anywhere?"
"No, probably not." I confessed.
"Daddy, I thought lying was bad?"
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