This weekend, I caught A. (ensnared him, really) in his first lie. He was sitting on the toilet, doing his business. Normally I sit with him to keep him company, to clean his ears, clip his nails, rub oil on any ashy patches on his scalp, that sort of thing (taking advantage of captive audience!), but we had just gotten home from the beach and food shopping so I had groceries to put away, towels to hang, sand-crusted toys to stash outside, and a million other little domestic distractions to tend to. When I hadn’t heard a peep from the bathroom in about five minutes, I stuck my head in to check on A’s progress. He avoided my eyes with uncharacteristic bashfulness, and when I stepped in the bathroom I noticed a large amount of the current roll of toilet paper had been unrolled and then clumsily, probably hastily re-rolled.
“A.?” I asked, softly but with an edge of disapproval, pointing at the haphazardly-wound roll. “Did you do this?”
He said nothing and stared at the floor with sad eyes. He knew this was bad. His first month home, he had done this repeatedly to the toilet paper. I let a lot of bad behavior slide those first tumultuous weeks, but I could not tolerate anything unhygienic, and after 4 or 5 firm rebukings A. found the inner strength to resist playing with the toilet paper. Until…
“Did you do this?” I asked again, and again no response. So I took another approach. “Did Daddy do this?”
He looked at me, his eyes widening a little with what I surmise was surprise. Maybe he was thinking, Oh boy! She doesn’t suspect me, she suspects Daddy!
I stifled a laugh and asked, “A.? Who did this?”
A. took a deep breath. “Daddy do it,” he said very, very quietly.
“Daddy?” I asked, nodding knowingly. “Daddy unrolled the toilet paper?”
Embolded, A. nodded. “Daddy do it!” he declared with a hint of self-righteousness, and I promptly burst out laughing. I know I shouldn’t have been laughing — not only was my child lying to my face, he was tattling on his father — but it was hilarious. My response actually infuriated A., who glared at me fiercely when realized that I was making fun of him the whole time.
“Mommy do it!” he said meanly, as if hurling an insult, and this really cracked me up. My laughter only made him madder and I was scared he was going to jump off the toilet and go into one of his rare hitting tantrums, so I immediately calmed myself down and began touching his hands and arms reassuringly.
“Honey, it’s okay,” I kept saying. “A. is a good boy! It’s okay!”
“Daddy do it,” he whispered, and then almost immediately, “A. do it.”
“Oh,” I said, acting surprised. “Well, you know we don’t play the toilet paper, honey. It’s bad.” (This is a word that holds tremendous sway with A., probably because some months ago I stupidly demonstrated its meaning to A. by pretend-slapping my own wrist. Although we never ever punish A. physically, the nannies at the orphanage would slap the children’s hands to make them stop or drop something, and though I regret my implication that “bad” actions would be addressed with light violence, it immediately gets A.’s attention when something is “bad.”)
“A. bad?” he asked sadly.
“A. not bad, A. is a good boy,” I reassured him, our typical. “But playing with the toilet paper is bad!”
Though I spoke very gently, something I said re-triggered his anger. “Mommy do it,” he told me. “Mommy bad.”
I started to giggle, and this time, after a moment of stoniness, A. joined in.
Mommy's Little Angel
