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It seems I've spawned a little liar.
My 4-year-old is experimenting with the truth this week, and it's testing my resolve.
"Did you brush your teeth?" I ask him.
"Yes," he replies.
"Really?" I ask. "Because that was incredibly fast."
"I did."
"OK, so … why is your toothbrush dry?"
He sighs. "Because I didn't really."
The next evening, he does it again — this time he tells us he fed the puppy when, in fact, he didn't.
My eyes go squinty with outrage and I do what I always do when faced with a kid-rearing challenge for which I am woefully unprepared: I launch into an age-inappropriate speech ("truth is one of our family's highest values"). Then, shamed by his blank stare, I dial it back to a simpler but ultimately still inscrutable lesson ("Little boys who cry 'wolf' get eaten by, um, hungry puppies. And your teeth will fall out, too.")
Once I've thoroughly confused him and made him feel lousy, I always end up saying the same thing as I tuck my wayward boy in to bed: "Good night, buddy. Tomorrow you get the chance to make better choices."
But the truth — as long as we're touting it — is this: I don't know if he'll make better choices tomorrow. The truth is wigglier than any of us like to admit and learning to live by it is tricky, even for adults.
As he bumps up against the boundaries of "honesty," my preschooler tests my own definitions of "lying." And I'm disappointed to discover I'm no great help in his quest to find the bottom line.
"What if you promise to do something," he asks, "and then you forget?"
"What if you say you like someone, and then you change your mind?
"What if you're just kidding?"
I've got a better idea, kid. What if I just feed the dog myself from now on?