There’s a saying, probably from a song I’m too lazy to look up, that says, “Time can change me, but I can’t change time.” While this saying has no real meaning in the larger sense of the theme of this entry, it holds as little weight in the short-term. Basically what I’m saying is that it has absolutely nothing to do with what I’m about to talk about. ‘So why leave it in’ you ask? I’ll tell you why. Well, actually I won’t.
Parenting styles have changed a lot over the years as have the attitudes of my generation. Whereas my grandfather’s generation was tough, beaten, and strong; my generation cries watching Oprah. My grandmother once told me the story of when my grandfather lost his left arm in the war and spent the next 42 years without any medical attention claiming it was ‘just a papercut.’ Actually, none of that is true. It’s just the same though, none of this has to do with this entry anyways.
I’ll just skip the introductions and get to the point: We need to stop lying to children. Granted it’s fun lying to little kids because, well, they’re stupid, but ridiculing our future doctors and lawyers is no laughing matter. At least not to them. I think that parents completely under appreciate the affect that lies have on their kids. Don’t get me wrong I’m just as guilty as the next guy. I’ll play along when I hear a parent telling their kids myths about Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, or The Holocaust (too soon?), but I can justify this to myself because: a) they’re not my kids, and b) I’m a horrific human being.
Also, I’m a second generation liar. Whether I lie because it’s just the way I am or because I grew up surrounded by lies is up for debate. We could argue about ‘Nature vs. Nurture’ all day, but until somebody actually arranges the fight it’s all speculation. Regardless of the result (I’d take Nature in the 4th) it doesn’t change the fact that as much as my parents assure me they’re honest, it’s clear they lie to me. When I was young my father used to pretend I had a little brother who died tragically performing whatever dangerous task I was about to embark on to keep me from doing it, and as if that wasn’t enough, both my parents, to this day, continue to tell me that they love me.
I have a baby brother named Evan. He’s about 2 years old and he can’t speak yet. So when I sit down with him and he points to a picture of a train, he says ‘Choo, Choo,’ and I say ‘Yes Evan, that’s a choo choo.’ But it’s not a fucking choo choo; it’s a train! I’m lying to the bastard and he’s not even old enough to join the Israeli army (two more months). He’s also currently being toilet trained. So every time he goes to the washroom we all act impressed and clap and cheer like he was just named president, which is ironic because he's no longer full of shit. But none of us are actually proud. We can poo on our own, we’ve been doing it all our freakin’ lives. I mean, my cat poos in one spot, I should expect the same from a tiny human being.
It’s not just parents lying to babies to keep them from crying and shitting in their shoes, we also lie to them through childhood. I have some cousins that I go to visit occasionally and they’re in that stage where they draw everything, and everything they draw gets put up on the fridge. Not just the fridge, also the walls, the cupboards, and my nightmares. It’s one thing if you’re putting them up because you wanna be supportive of your children or you think they have a gift, but let’s face it, that orange scribbling that Jenny claims is a giraffe is no Picasso. It looks more like I cut a cat in half and threw it at a blank piece of paper.
Again, I’m just as guilty as the next guy. Recently one of my cousins drew a picture of me, which was really sweet and I was genuinely touched. But when she actually showed me the drawing an inexplicable sense of contempt for her grew over me. I looked like a clown whose face had been lit on fire and extinguished with a rake. To make matters worse my name had been written on the bottom, with one of those backwards S’s and a few extra vowels. All I could think about was how our school system had failed them, and if there were any specialty schools for children with no creative center in their brains. And while I was thinking about how pathetic this child’s perception or “art” seemed to be, all I was able to say was how beautiful it was as I reached for the tape to put it up on the fridge.
My point is that I am no saint. I lie to children; I even smack ‘em around a bit if nobody’s watching, but I’m not concerned. For the past twenty years I’ve been told that Jesus died for my sins, so I’m going to heaven with a clean slate.
Unless of course they were lying about Jesus. But my elders wouldn’t lie to me.
Right?
