Family column

My Patriot Ledger column wasn't posted on the website, so here it is. Enjoy.

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Little Liar

My family was regrouping around the dinner table one night. Abby said pizza for lunch was a major highlight of her fourth-grade day. Brian, my first-grader, concurred, and added that he played with his friends at recess. Then the kindergartner spoke up.

“Kevin punched me in the face,” Timmy said calmly.

That got my attention. “He did?” I asked, alarmed.

“Yeah,” he went on. “He wanted the Legos and I was using them so he punched me in the face.”

I looked at the little face in question. No marks, no blotches. A milk mustache, and that was all.

“What did you do then?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said, staring at his chicken nuggets.

“Well, what did your teacher do?” I pressed.

“She didn’t see,” he quickly said.

“Well, I think I’d better call and talk with her about this,” I answered. “We can’t have kids fighting at school.”

“Noooo, don’t call her,” he wailed.

I squinted at him. “Timmy, did Kevin really punch you?”

“Yeeeessss,” he said slowly.

“Because I didn’t get a call from the nurse about your being hurt, either,” I continued.

He studied his plate.

I took a breath. “Timmy,” I said, “Do you want to start over and tell me what really happened?”

“Okay,” he said grudgingly. “Kevin didn’t punch me.”

“Then why did you tell me he did?” I asked.

He shrugged.

I explained to him that he mustn’t say things that aren’t true, and left it at that. We had smooth sailing until the next week, when we were again at the dinner table, reviewing our days.

“I got in trouble today,” Timmy piped up. This was the first I’d heard of it.

“Uh-oh,” I said. “Tell me about it.”

“I was yelling and I got all the way on the red and I had to go to the principal’s office,” he said excitedly.

“What’s the red?” I asked.

“It’s a behavior chart,” explained Brian, my savvy informant.

“And you were on the red?” I asked Timmy.

“Yes,” he giggled.

“Timmy, getting sent to the principal’s office is a very serious thing,” I said, sternly. “I think a kindergartner would have to be very, very naughty to be sent there. I certainly hope you’re not being naughty in school.”

“Are you going to call my teacher?” he asked.

“Should I?”

“No!” he answered.

“Timmy,” I warned.

“Okay,” he said, exasperatedly. “I didn’t get sent to the principal’s office.”

“Timmy, you can’t be telling me things that aren’t true,” I said. “That’s called lying.”

“I know,” he said, eyes on his plate. “I didn’t even get on the red.” He sounded disappointed.

Why a five-year-old feels the need to exaggerate his escapades for dinnertime dialogue is beyond me. One would think that his first taste of all-day school would be filled with enough real adventure to provide ample conversational fodder. I hope it’s developmental, not pathological.

For now, I’m rooting out the deceit and squelching the embellishment as best I can. Concerns about dishonesty aside, however, I do admit one thing: I’d much rather hear false reports about fights and visits to the principal than confirmed ones.

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