"Always slipping from my hands
Sand's a time of its own.
Take your seaside arms and write the next line
Oh I want the truth to be known. " - Spandau Ballet
"You can't HANDLE the truth!" - Jack Nicholson
Truth is not solid. It is malleable, stretchable. It changes over time as memories fade and convictions become fixed. In the mind of a teenager, truth is like silly putty.
The things that I believed to with my whole heart to be true in my youth, for instance, didn't always turn out to be true. ("When I grow up, I'm going to be Miss America and marry Rick Springfield!")
My kids are not intentionally deceitful. They are just expert handlers.
Sometimes, you just need to keep the truth at bay for a while. ("Uh, yeah, Mom, the other kids got their report cards, but they MAILED the sophomore's report cards out because of a computer glitch. So, can I go to the beach???")
One theory exists that there is a lesser-of-two-evil truths. ("Okay, yes, I drove my friends around in your car without a license. . .but I made everybody wear their seat belts!")
The most frequent are the almost-truths. ("See, Mom, I am wearing a different shirt today!" But I have the shirt you told me NOT to wear in my backpack. . . )
Sometimes, I WISH they'd just lie to me. ("Mom, I'd rather hang out with my friends. You and Dad are, well, old!" )
Like silly putty, you can mush the truth around and press it against the picture in your mind - sometimes the imprint is readable. And sometimes you have to wad it up and start over.
But when they look into my eyes and say, "You are the most beautiful, best mom in the whole world," (like putty in their hands) I know this much is true. . .
1 month ago