Lying to your children: A hereditary trait
My friend Kathy and I were laughing yesterday about telling Martin that if he doesn't brush his teeth they will rot and fall out. I know that this isn't a lie, it could happen, but it probably wouldn't happen for a long time. Still, it wasn't that I planned to say it to him, it just came out of my mouth. During my conversation with Kathy, I admitted that I've done this on at least two other occasions in the past few months.
The first time I can remember was back in December. It was taking SO long to get Martin to bed. I was sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for him to fall asleep, and reminding him to close his eyes about every 10 seconds. We both heard a noise outside his window. I could tell it was just a car backing out of the neighbor's driveway. But, when Martin asked me what it was, I said "It's Santa and he's here to check to see what time you go to bed." It just came out of my mouth before I even knew it was there.
A few nights ago, after I thought Martin was already sleeping, I heard him yell "dog barking" from his bedroom. The dog across the street was barking and he wanted me to know it. I went into Martin's room and he asked me what the dog was saying. I tilted my head to the side and listened for a second, then replied, "He just said that you better go to bed right now." I elaborated by adding, "Oh wait, he just said that he can hear us talking and it's keeping him awake."
As I was sheepishly telling Kathy these stories, she laughed and said "You're turning out just like your dad." She's right, these were the kinds of things that my dad had told us growing up, although mine are pretty tame in comparison.
When we were kids, my dad took my brother Ryan and me down to the Legion to see Santa. As we walked past the church, we noticed that there was a hearse parked in front of the church. Dad told us that the funeral was for Santa and that he was dead. He turned our sled around and took us home. Crying.
Another time, he said that the Easter Bunny wasn't going to be able to make it. Because he'd been shot in our yard.
My tales might not be as grand as my dad's, but I'm afraid that I have inherited the gene.
The first time I can remember was back in December. It was taking SO long to get Martin to bed. I was sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for him to fall asleep, and reminding him to close his eyes about every 10 seconds. We both heard a noise outside his window. I could tell it was just a car backing out of the neighbor's driveway. But, when Martin asked me what it was, I said "It's Santa and he's here to check to see what time you go to bed." It just came out of my mouth before I even knew it was there.
A few nights ago, after I thought Martin was already sleeping, I heard him yell "dog barking" from his bedroom. The dog across the street was barking and he wanted me to know it. I went into Martin's room and he asked me what the dog was saying. I tilted my head to the side and listened for a second, then replied, "He just said that you better go to bed right now." I elaborated by adding, "Oh wait, he just said that he can hear us talking and it's keeping him awake."
As I was sheepishly telling Kathy these stories, she laughed and said "You're turning out just like your dad." She's right, these were the kinds of things that my dad had told us growing up, although mine are pretty tame in comparison.
When we were kids, my dad took my brother Ryan and me down to the Legion to see Santa. As we walked past the church, we noticed that there was a hearse parked in front of the church. Dad told us that the funeral was for Santa and that he was dead. He turned our sled around and took us home. Crying.
Another time, he said that the Easter Bunny wasn't going to be able to make it. Because he'd been shot in our yard.
My tales might not be as grand as my dad's, but I'm afraid that I have inherited the gene.
I made the blog! I still laugh when I hear those stories about your Dad when you were little.
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Dear Kathleen,
It is with great interest that I read your comments about stories that have been attributed to Jennie's father. As a good friend of Jennie's you must be aware of her ability to tell a story. Trust me, the stories that she claims are mine are really things she has dream about and over the years has somehow connected to me. Do you really think that a man capable of raising two wonderful children (almost single handedly) be the creator of such yarns? You must agree that it is possible but unlikely.
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God, I love your dad. I especially loved telling my husband as we were on our way to your parents' house that your dad is the guy who taught me how to smoke a cigar, drink whiskey and shoot a pistol. The only promise he hasn't made good on yet is BBQ'ing turtle for me on his gas grill.
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I think you better call him on it. A girl should have some turtle. Besides, it's probably high time Sophie and Trixie learn some of the things he taught you. Better start with the cigar, they're too young for pistols and it would be illegal to give them whiskey. These are things all girls should know - sort of like knowing how to change a tire. Even if you choose to use AAA.
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Meghan, It is a good thing that I'm technologically capable of reading Jennie's diatribe. Had I not read some of these comments I would never have been able to defend my good name. Since honestly is the best policy, I will admit that I did provide you with a cigar, matches, a pistol, ammo, a glass and a bottle of my Evan Williams whiskey, but there is more to the story. In my presence you smoked the cigar, but when I saw you blow smoke rings I knew that you were not a novice smoker. I was a little taken back when you mentioned that the Macanudo Ascot was a trifle harsh as you puffed away. Obviously this wasn't your first time smoking a cigar, or probably anything else. When you loaded the pistol and commented about the hollow point rounds, I thought you seemed very familiar with firearms. When you popped off the safety and fired 6 quick rounds I was impressed. As for the whiskey, give me a break, a first time whiskey drinker doesn't comment on the robust flavor of a 12 year old bourbon.
I did expose you to 3 great experiences, cigars, guns and whiskey, but with your obvious expertice with all three I deny your claim that I taught you to smoke a cigar, shoot a pistol and drink whiskey.
I however would love to have you return for another round of each.
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