Father
Do all children lie? I lied when I was a kid. My friends lied, as well. I would wager this bet to anyone that was interested. On one occasion or another, all children have had at least one moment in time where they were less than truthful. No matter how good you are, nobody is ever perfect. I do wonder about the extent of lying, though. Some kids just seem to lie more than others. Some kids have a hard time differentiating between what is the truth and what is fallacy in their made up stories. I wonder if some kids actually believe what they are saying when they lie?
If you lied as a child, will your children emulate your persona and do the same? Do we have so much influence over our kids they end up being little replicas of ourselves? I realize I am just asking questions, but I feel that I am asking the same group of questions that all parents ask. This kind of stuff wasn’t in the handbook. Have they published a book titled, “What to expect when your child lies to you beyond the point of being reasonable?” I haven’t seen that one in the book store, but maybe I just haven’t been looking hard enough.
When I was young, I played at my cousin’s house almost every day. At one point in time my father and I lived right down the road from my aunt and uncle. The closeness we cousins held meant that even when I moved in with my grandmother, I still felt my cousins were more like brothers and sisters. My father and I moved around until I was 12. That was when he settled down with his current wife of more than 31 years. I guess it took him a little while longer than some to sow his wild oats. Maybe it is something -- like father like son.
I remember one afternoon when I was 10, playing with my cousins. We snuck some cigarettes from my aunt’s purse, in an attempt to try them out for ourselves. By “we,” I actually mean my cousin Tracy. She performed the literal thievery. My cousins lived in the country in Southern Illinois. If you say “out in the country” and “Southern Illinois” in the same sentence, you are truthfully being a little redundant. After Tracy snagged the pack of cigarettes, she brought them down to the creek by their house where the rest of the gang was excitedly waiting. We, then, all sat around trying them out. My little cousin, Darrell, my older cousin, Tracy, their neighbor, Shelly, and myself all joined in the experiment.
It was the first time I tried a cigarette, and I was doing so at the ripe age of 10. As you might expect, we puffed and sucked in the smoke, coughed for about 10 minutes each, and then tried doing it again. It made us all a little nauseated, but the grownups were doing it, and it was the cool thing to try. There must be something worthwhile, otherwise why in the world would anyone smoke these damn little things? We hung out down by the creek for several hours, until the cigarettes vanished and then headed back to their house. I had to get going because my father was taking me to a party later that evening. One of his girlfriends was having some kind of holiday gathering of some sort, and I was the token kid at the event.
On the way back to my cousin’s house, Darrell looked over at me and said, “Hey, your bangs look singed. The smoke must have gotten to them.” I, of course, couldn’t see my hair so when I made it back to my grandmother’s house I went straight to the bathroom and freaked out. My dad believed in discipline, and if he knew I’d been smoking he would kill me. So as logic goes, I took the scissors and cut my bangs. I cut them, and then cut them again. I just couldn’t get the damn things straight. Finally, when I had no bangs left I put the scissors away and headed out to the living room.
My grandmother had a fit as soon as she saw me. Isn’t it odd how kids view things? I knew I had not done a perfect job, but I didn’t feel anyone would really notice. My father, who had just made it home, saw me and lost all control. He screamed at me as he grabbed my arm and dragged me into the bathroom in an attempt to fix what I had damaged. I guess this little party of his was a big deal, in his mind. Ironically, a few months later they broke up anyway.I told him at the time that I had gotten gum stuck in my hair and had tried to cut it out. It seemed logical, made sense, and I stuck to my story. I figured let them prove me wrong. I wasn’t going to confess anything. Is a lie a lie if nobody ever finds out? I guess so, but does it hurt anyone? Kids don’t seem to think so. In my old age, I now believe in laying my cards on the table. If somebody doesn’t like it, they can head south for the winter. I am just doing my best to get by in this world -- lying makes things too complicated.
About the time my daughter turned 9 there was a noticeable difference in her. She had trouble telling the truth about anything. It almost seemed like a game to her, and she was very good at it. It got to the point where we had no idea when she was being honest and when she wasn’t. Interestingly enough it was about the silliest things. “Did you eat your cereal, Melissa?” I would ask. “Yes, Dad,” she would respond. We would, then, walk into the kitchen, and her full bowl of cereal would be on the counter top.
One day I was sitting in the bedroom, and Cheryl was out in the living room. The kids were doing their normal activities. Suddenly, I heard a huge commotion as the angry mother came storming into the bedroom.
“Did you see what your daughter did? Did you see it?” She yelled at me and anyone in the Bay Area that might have been listening.
Trailing after her was Melissa, and surprisingly she was screaming, as well. I knew things were bordering on a loss of control lately, but Melissa was a child. Did she really think that she could scream at her mother?
Cheryl had a thing for all of the girl’s hair. I am not sure if at some point her parents had shaved her bald, but she refused to allow the kids any leeway on how they styled their mop up top. It was to be cut only when she gave the approval, and she had to be there supervising the entire process. I learned this the hard way a couple of years before when I was at Supercuts. I go for the cheapest, most convenient place around. I can’t stand the thought of spending money on a haircut, and then, four weeks later, you are right back at it again.
When I ventured into Supercuts as one of my afternoon errands, Melissa had accompanied me. She asked if I would let her get her hair cut, as well, while we were there, and I absently agreed. All they do is trim a little off the bottom. What is the big deal? So she got a couple of inches clipped off. When we arrived home Cheryl attempted to compensate for her irritation by removing a couple of inches from my ass. Damn, I learned very quickly that the girls’ hair was off limits. Never again did I acquiesce to a requested haircut without an appropriate approval.
So the two combatants entered the bedroom, screaming at the top of their lungs. Finally, Cheryl gained some semblance of control and quieted down while Melissa went on in her one-person tirade. She was crying at the same time she was screaming. She had not cut her hair. Her mother was wrong. She had not done anything. She hadn’t touched the scissors. She had not cut a single strand. She didn’t understand why her mother was upset. I admittedly couldn’t notice a difference, but that is not saying much. Normally people have to tell me when my own hair is long, just so I know it is time to get it trimmed.
Finally, the screaming subsided, and the sniffling commenced. You know -- the state that kids get in when they are so hysterical they seem to no longer be breathing. It is exactly like when you blow up a balloon with all of the air in your lungs, and suddenly your head gets dizzy, and you can’t catch your breath. You gasp for oxygen which is so close, but nothing is inhaled. It must look like a nest of little birds when the mother is getting ready to feed them. Those little beaks chomping back and forth on emptiness, but she hasn’t spit the food in their direction yet.
After asking Cheryl to remain quiet, I spoke directly to Melissa. I asked point blank, “Melissa did you or did you not cut your hair?”
Her response came quickly and matter of fact, “No, I did not.”
I looked at her mother and said, “I am unsure what to do. She seems to be denying it so emphatically. Are you sure she really did it?”
I felt like a referee in a Mike Tyson fight. I wanted everyone to play by the rules, but the last thing I wanted was to get punched
or, God forbid, have my ear bitten off. As Melissa was trying to control her tears, which were still flowing freely, Cheryl left the room.
I never understand women. What was I supposed to do then? I reached my arms around Melissa and attempted to console her. She was only 9 for Christ’s sake. I know she was capable of doing a lot, but this was the most worked up I had ever seen her. I just wanted her to feel better and see if we couldn’t find a tolerable solution for everyone. Hopefully, the answer would be the truth. That is always helpful.
As Melissa and I were sitting down, still in the bedroom, her mother walked back with a pair of scissors and a handful of hair. She looked at Melissa and said, “I found these in your bathroom, what do you have to say now?”
Melissa looked at her mother, and then looked back at me. Her tears instantly dried up, and she said very calmly, “Well, I guess you caught me. I did cut my hair.”
I was actually stunned. Not that my daughter had lied. That happens. We all deal with those little transgressions. The thing that bowled me over was the hour-long production I had just witnessed. Her facial expressions. The crying and screaming. The violent denial.
When I entered the army, I remember getting on a bus. I was 17 at the time, and it was the summer of my junior year in high school. I had joined the Illinois National Guard, and they, with your parents’ permission, allowed 17 year olds to attend basic training. You would then come back to military school the following summer and attend your specialized training course. I took a plane to Fort Dix, N.J. I think that base is actually closed now, but I am not completely sure. When we exited the plane we boarded a bus. I remember seeing a bunch of other young men, a little older perhaps, but relatively close to my age.
I had never really felt so alone. I didn’t know anyone. Everywhere I looked I found myself peering into the eyes of strangers. It was a little unnerving, being yelled at and talked down to by the sergeant. Everyone seemed to be doing his best to fade into the concrete. Don’t acknowledge anything unless you have to. Keep your mouth shut, and only as a last resort do you speak.
When I looked into the eyes of my daughter that day, I didn’t see Melissa. I am not sure when she had left us. I guess as you get caught up in life, your attention is on the mail, breakfast, feeding the dog, taking out the trash or whatever monumental task that seems so important. I am not even sure at the time that I fully realized Melissa was no longer with us. I didn’t fully comprehend what was happening or what the episode I had just witnessed meant. I did feel alone. I felt alone for her, as well as for myself. It makes you think sometimes if we are ever anything more than an individual.
To this day, I still do not know what instigated the hair-cutting dilemma. I don’t know why Melissa cut her hair; I don’t know why she felt the need to lie. I don’t know why after she was caught she made such a production out of it until she was cornered, and then had to ‘fess up to the truth. I will never know. I am not even sure it matters. In my mind I try to compare my situation as a child and what I faced with what she might have felt. I try to understand her perspective, and it eludes me. I feel like I am grasping for straws, and I can’t get my hand to close on one of them fast enough. Answers just don’t seem to develop. The more I question, the more questions arise. I am still hoping to make sense of all of this, but my hope is quickly diminishing.
The one thing that I can say is I truly did lose her that day. I might not have known it. I might not have understood it, but things were never really the same after that. I wish I were better at explaining what occurred. Was it just my daughter growing up and testing boundaries? I struggled with who this ever-evolving person was living in our home. At the time I held out hope for middle school and seeing her rise to the challenges she would face.
Little did I know that middle school would bring about something far more scarring than a little hair lost in the sink?
Which is worse, lying or stealing?
Father
I woke up in the middle of the night crying again. I felt myself shaking and couldn’t quite grasp what was happening. My dreams are always of a similar nature. They start out well, running in the fields, playing with the kids, kite surfing in the ocean (which has always been something I wanted to try), but the dreams always ends in death. Somebody dying, or getting hurt, or about to die. Somebody getting hit by a car. I see it happening in slow motion, but I can’t stop it. I can’t control it. I feel like I have lost any ability to affect my surroundings. When did I become helpless? I thought parents were in charge of their children.
Melissa entered middle school with high expectations. She struggled a little toward the end of grade school, but she was very bright. She could do whatever she set her mind to. The scary part was what she focused on at times, but at 11 years old, she was heading out on her new adventure. Cheryl had her registered for classes and made all the preparations. We both attended the meetings, but her mother had always insisted on controlling this aspect of our children’s lives. Interestingly enough, she demanded this right so firmly, yet she complained incessantly to our friends that I didn’t participate enough in their school. The irony.
Most of our marriage, she travelled. She was gone the majority of the time during the week, and the au-pair and I were left to tend to the children. I am not sure how I would have gotten by without somebody around to help at times, but then there are moments when I felt I was rearing four daughters instead of three. Granted it was different with most of our au-pairs being in their 20s, but still, they did have their limitations. As with all young adults there is the drinking aspect and the inevitable car crashes. Luckily, nobody was ever seriously hurt, but every single au-pair had at least one fender bender. One crash was actually quite extensive.
I am not sure if having the au-pairs help raise the kids was a positive in the end. Our first one stayed for two years, but all of the rest were around for only one. It seemed as soon as the kids got attached to an au-pair and developed a bond, she would leave, and a new one would show up. We really only had one bad experience, and we endured it for less than a month. We actually had to get her removed. She and Cheryl clashed from the beginning, and the au-pair had the audacity to tell the mother of my children the things she was doing wrong. She actually said to her that if she, as a woman, loved her kids, she would be at home rearing them, not off on business trips. Damn, now that was funny, but not very wise.
With our jobs going well, we jointly made the decision to purchase a vacation house up in the mountains. We had been going there for several years, normally in the fall, and had looked at several houses already. I admittedly had an alternative motive at the time. Our marriage was getting more and more rocky. I was beginning to feel we were never going to make it through the thick part of things. Through thick and thin, but we were mired for so long in the muck, I had now forgotten what the thin part felt like.
The house in the mountains felt like an opportunity to renew things. Give all of us a fresh start. The kids enjoyed being there. Time just seemed to slow down the second you opened the door in the little town. There was skiing in the winter and a lake in the summer. We really could use the house all year round. We were also excited about the prospect of renting the house as a vacation home. The house was split in two sections, and we could use the little apartment while renting the rest of the house out. The rent should have paid for property taxes and upkeep at a minimum.
Melissa was in 7th grade, and we were packing to get ready for our weekend away. We had been several times already, but it was still new so the excitement of the preparation was fresh with anticipation. Melissa was bringing a friend with her this weekend. She had been asking since the beginning, and we finally felt it made sense. The lower level of the house was not rented so we would have plenty of room for her and anyone else, for that matter. When you added it up, our little mansion was well more than 4,000 square feet.
The little girl that was coming along as Melissa’s friend was named Shelly. We had known her for a few year
s now and felt comfortable with her evening out our entourage to six. Her parents were not friends of ours, but we had met them at several school functions. Shelly had spent the night at our house on numerous occasions. She spent the previous Saturday night at our house, and the girls, as always, had gotten along quite well.
Since we were not leaving until the next day, it was odd when Shelly’s mother called and asked to speak to Cheryl and me together. We tentatively got on the phone and anxiously awaited the delivery. Shelly’s mom asked us if we had noticed or seen some diamond earrings. Apparently, Shelly left them in our house when she spent the night. We both shook our heads in agreement. We had not heard anything about missing earrings. Shelly’s mother then told us that not only had Shelly told Melissa about the situation but she, Shelly’s mother, had also called Melissa, as well.
According to Shelly’s mom, Melissa’s original story went something like this: Melissa had the earrings and was bringing them to school. On Monday, when she showed up and didn’t have the earrings, she emphatically stated that she had forgotten them and would bring them the next day. On Tuesday, Melissa said she could not find the earrings. She didn’t know where they were and had not been able to locate them. Now things started getting a little hairy. The story shifted back and forth from forgetting them to not finding them on several occasions. Shelly’s mother did not care one way or the other. She simply hoped to retrieve them because they had been her mother’s.
After a very lengthy stay on the phone, we hung up with the promise that we would attempt to figure things out. We called Mellissa into our room and began the discussion. We told her everything we knew and asked her if she could locate the earrings or if she knew where they were. She vehemently denied any knowledge and, as was now becoming her normal routine, became very defensive. After you deal with somebody for a long time period, in this case Melissa’s entire life, they develop patterns. It was easy to see that Melissa was lying. The difficulty, as always, would be trying to figure out the truth.
Learning to Cry Page 4