I am pleased to introduce you to this week’s guest blogger. Elyse is a wife, mother of two, chocolate loving, gin drinking, trained butcher, and former resident of the UK who now lives in Canada and blogs over at Life Without Lemons. Elyse’s blog is about food, family, and lots of gin but contains bad grammar and spelling mistakes (kindly pointed out by her husband).
White lies are paramount to parenting. I never would have believed such a statement but then I became a parent and realized those little fibs are just about as important as feeding the little darlings. I am not talking huge, whopping lies, but important stuff like telling the little angels that the ice cream man only plays music when he has run out of ice cream and that if you get out of bed at bedtime the monster that lives under the bed will bite off your legs.
Perhaps non-parents reading this are judging me right now and feel my deception may somehow be harming my children’s development. I see this side of the argument and—before I had children—I would have agreed that an open and honest approach to the lessons of life was the way to go. So in my defence of the white lie and its vital role in parenting I will give you a real life situation in action so you can make up your own mind…
It’s a Saturday. It’s a lazy pyjama morning with the kids being entertained by cartoons and us grownups taking in some much needed coffee and relaxation. A wild suggestion of Tim Horton’s for breakfast (I may be British at heart but we go to Tim Horton’s so we surely must be “nearly Canadian” already!) is mentioned and with the kids excited at the prospect of a Boston Cream donut instead of a well-balanced breakfast, they are sent upstairs to put on some clothes.
I hear the pitter patter of feet on the stairs and turn around to a shiny vision of madness beaming back at me from the bottom of the stairs. The white lie part of my brain is tingling (just like Spiderman’s spidey senses, I imagine).
I smile at Harry and say:
With no questions asked, Harry shrugs his shoulders, retreats back up the stairs and comes back five minutes later, slightly more normal and acceptable.
It’s a good job I can save all these photos in a folder on my computer called “Embarrassing images to show any future dates you bring home in revenge for waking me up at 5am for the first two years of your life.”
Do you care how your child dresses in public?
Did you parents care how you were dressed?