Sometimes I lie to my kids.

It’s true.  I know lying is bad. It’s a commandment afterall.   But sometimes I do it.

I tell them that if they drink all their milk, their muscles will grow huge.

Or if they wiggle their non-wiggly teeth and try to force them out, the tooth fairy doesn’t like those ones and she gives less money.

I tell them if they lick the floor they’ll get sick and have to get shots.

I tell them ice cream shops we drive by are closed.

Or clothes I really don’t want them to wear to church/party/special event are dirty and in the laundry.

I tell them they’ll get a belly ache if they eat chicken nuggets three days in a row.

During bedtime routines, I tell them I can’t read another story/do an 11th round of “what do you like better” because Mommy has to go to bed right now too.

I tell them dinner will be ready in “just a minute” – when it’s really going to be like 30.

I’ve said that their artwork was put away in a special folder, when in fact, it went into the trash – about 5 minutes after it was brought home.

I know. I’m not going to be able to get away with these untruths for much longer. They’ll get older and call my bluff.  But for now, I’m sticking to my story.



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