lies i told my mother

I am like three years old, and I am hiding in my closet. Naked.

Are you in there, Andrea?

Uh, yeah. I'm in here.

Are you dressed?

Uh, yeah. I'm dressed.

There it is. The first lie I remember telling my mom. At the time, I feel pretty justified in telling it, because I just love changing my clothes, and there are just too many options to select only one outfit. How could I anticipate, how could I possibly know mom would give me a three time limit on clothes changing for the day? I'm four! It's what I do! Besides telling myself stories in the bathroom, changing clothes is the primary joy of my life!

So, I lie to my mom. She opens the closet door.

Oops. Didn't so much think that far.

Then I am seven, and it is the night before my birthday. There is an unwrapped birthday present under the front seat of mom's car, and I sneak out after dinner for a peek. It's a box set of Little House on the Prairie books. A tiny thrill courses through my body when I see them.

I walk back inside.

Where were you?

I freeze. Covert ops have never been my strong suit.

Uh....there was a big star.

Let's go see it, shall we?

Geez.

I am eight years old now, and sitting at the dinner table, but dinner has been over for a long, long time. I stare at my bean burrito. I attempt to vaporize it using the power of my mind. Unsuccessful, I review the blueprint of the kitchen, looking for somewhere, anywhere, to dispose of it.

Andrea, if you don't eat the burrito tonight, you have to eat it for breakfast tomorrow.

So really, all I hear is blah blah blah don't eat the burrito tonight which is exactly what I am going for, so I congratulate myself for being on the same page as mom, and go to the bathroom to tell myself a story about this awesome fluffy pink satin bedspread I saw in the Sears catalog, and then I go to bed.

When I wake up, a dim memory steals across the back corner of my mind and I realize...... I have to eat a bean burrito for breakfast.

Siiiiiick! Oh holy awful disgustingness!! What in the name of all that is pure was I thinking?

I sit at the breakfast table, alone. I stare at the cold burrito. The cold bean burrito. Overnight it has, I believe, become evil. The burrito is definitely giving off a cold, evil, bean-y vibe. As I ponder my predicament, the solution becomes immediately and beautifully clear:

I dump the burrito in the garbage.

A sensation of supreme relief washes over me upon the disappearance of the bean filled villain, and later when mom asks me if I ate my burrito, I say yes, but that I didn't like it. I think that makes my story nice and realistic like.

Only this time mom doesn't know that I lied. I get away with it. I carry the burrito guilt around with me for a while. For years, actually. It's always there, in the back of my mind. In throwing away my burrito and lying to my mom, I have knowingly sinned. And I really, really don't want to be having my card scanned at judgement day and have an outstanding un-repented burrito sin on my record.

So, I tell her.

She's not mad. I don't get in trouble. She laughs. This might have something to do with the fact that I am at the time like twenty seven, and living three thousand miles away, and there's only so much discipline that can be employed at that point, but I still appreciate her forgiving manner.

That was really nice, I think.

Why didn't I try that sooner?

Mom, I am naked in the closet because I wanted to change my clothes six times not the three like you said, and I peeked at my birthday present and threw away the burrito that I was supposed to eat for breakfast because I wouldn't eat it for dinner.

Huh. It kinda sounds worse when you put them all together like that.

But really, why? Mom always knows.

I am like fifteen, and smack in the middle of my angst ridden angry at parental authority figures period. I am lying in bed late at night. I am crying. I am afraid, I am sad. I am lonely and my body is riddled with unfamiliar hormones and I want my mom. I really, really want my mom.

She opens my door. I pretend I am asleep. I don't want to be asleep. I want her to sit down on my bed, and hold me close and tell me the nice things moms say, like those pimples don't look like volcanoes at all, and you can still be a successful adult even though you don't have one of those kilts with the huge safety pins like Tiffany in your English class has.

But I pretend I am asleep. I pretend I don't need her. I lie to my mom.

She still knows. Mom always knows. She walks in. She kisses me on the forehead. She whispers she loves me.

Hey, Mom?

Sorry I lied.