Relief floods my body. The secret is out. At least, one of them.
“I found my tooth, it was still there! And so was the money! Are you the tooth fairy?”
Both my eyes are open now, and my son stands by the bedside, his question imploring and immediate. I answer truthfully. “No. Dad is the tooth fairy. Don’t tell your sister!” And he smiles, his confirmation complete. With that, two are out. Easter bunny, tooth fairy. Two down, and a few to go.
Dad has always been the tooth fairy. I am terrible at sneaking around. I’d like to think I have a nimble nature, but when it comes to being sneaky in the dark, I turn into a water buffalo. I step on every squeaky board, I knock into things, and whisper Jesus! Under my breath and turn around and make Dad do it anyway. I am hopeless. This last time, Dad couldn’t find the tooth in order to swap it. There may have been a bit of mischief on my son’s part, placing the tooth in a difficult-to-find place, in order to test his hypothesis.
I am also a terrible liar, which makes the make-believe part of childhood difficult for me. Or lying, in general. My face gets flushed and I avoid eye contact, the whole thing is horrible. Ask me a question, and I’ll tell you how I feel about it, sometimes before I know to stop myself, or sugar coat, or tell a half truth, in order to avoid the whole one.
The other night I gave this big speech to my husband about not telling the babysitter what movie we’d seen, that it was slightly abnormal for two seemingly upstanding individuals to go and see a horror movie, full price, because they like to be shit-scared and it’s the closest they can come to getting a thrill. (It must true, it’s usually us, teenagers, the lone misanthrope, this last time, two parents and a five-month-old baby. Yeah, that confused me too, but maybe crying and screaming are normal, soothing sounds?) We got home, still shaking, and the babysitter asked me, “What movie did you go see?” and I went, “uhhhh, we went to The Conjuring. It was really scary. You shouldn’t see it.” All the things I told him to avoid saying went out the window. I tried to talk about the fabulous Indian dinner we had, and how were the kids? Blah blah… but I was thinking, oh no, she’s not going to sit for us again, now that she knows we are weirdos. Sigh. I could have just spat out anything, but I was faced with a direct question, and couldn’t.
So far, I have managed to hedge around the Christmas issue. I don’t like it, even though I know that in order to preserve some of the magic of childhood you must lie through your teeth, repeatedly. I feel better knowing my parents did, and theirs did, and this form of lying is really just telling tall tales, with a bit of historical realism in the background. I think my son suspects; he’s heard things at school. He’s also smart enough to know that maybe if he asks, and I say you got me, all the presents might dry up. I am hoping he will stick to this and not corner me in the bed again, before I have had any coffee.
Maybe there is a course I can take, or a book I can read. Lying With the Best of Them or You Too Can Lie Like a Rug. I have been known to lie, to save my own bacon (from my Dad) or cover for my brother (from my Dad) or gain entrance to bars when underage, that sort of thing. But lying to my kids? This is going to be hard. I know I am accountable for everything that comes out of my mouth, because I can mention a treat or a special trip and they will still bring it up months, years later. Any lying will surely come back to bite me in the ass. But as I have said before, they can just work it out in therapy someday. I’m saving now to cover the costs.