Handling the Truth

We're trying to get Elan to understand the importance of honesty, of telling the truth instead of the giant whoppers that tend to pop out of his mouth from time to time. It's all age-appropriate, I'm told. These romantic tales are usually woven when he feels cornered - when he knows he's done something wrong - and they are delivered with flourish: his eyes gazing upward and over to the left, the dead giveaway that he is, as you suspect, fabricating in a big way.

When Y and I aren't looking at the kids, and Ariel starts spontaneously screaming in pain, we usually look at Elan, who in turn looks upward and leftward, the gears in his little head turning feverishly as he tries to come up with something fantastic, yet believable. His stories usually involve heroic efforts on his part to save his brother, like having wacked Ariel's head in order to sweep off the massive, deadly spider that was preparing to snack on the little one's brain.

So lately we've been saying, when confronted with a weeping Ariel, "Elan? Can you please tell us what happened? We are sure it was an accident, and as long as you tell us the truth, we won't punish you or get angry." At this point, he usually makes us promise, swear on a bible that we mean what we say, and eventually a reasonably accurate explanation - shaved of a few further incriminiating details, I'm sure - comes out.

It's tough, though, because then we can't punish him, no matter how reproachful his actions. We make him apologize and everything, but I'm not sure he's learning more than one lesson there.

Anyway, because of a recent increase in lying, Y and I have had to step up our "Telling the Truth is Important" lessons, to keep up. Elan's noticed. And the other day, he came home from school telling me about how one of the assistant teachers in his classroom was leaving for the rest of the school year, and so she had given each of the kids a little goodbye gift.

Elan's gift, in his eyes, couldn't have been more fabulous: an old, obviously used ballpoint pen. Or as he affectionately referred to it, "penny." Elan likes nicknaming. I wanted to squeeze in another hour of work while the babysitter was still around, so I told him he could go play with the pen, so long as he only scribbled on paper (there've been incidents in the past). He gave me his word.

Things were quiet for about an hour, while I tapped away at my keyboard. Then, Elan appeared at the stairs, a terrified expression on his face. With the trembling hands of a recovering drug addict, surrendering his stash out of fear of a relapse, he thrust "penny" in my face.

"Um, Mommy? You need to take this pen from me. Um, can you just take it away from me, NOW? Please?"

"Why, hon? What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing. It's fine. Just take it! I'm, um, afraid I might draw with it if I keep it." With that, he raced back up the stairs and out of sight.

Now, I may get distracted from time to time, but I wasn't born yesterday. I marched upstairs after him, bracing myself for the damage. He led me to his bathroom. The last coloring incident had occurred in my bathroom, so I knew to be worried. But I saw...nothing.

"Elan? Let's have it. Tell me the truth. Did you color on the floor somewhere? The walls? Just tell me."

[Eyes wide, gaze heading up and left] "I didn't color anywhere. Really, I didn't. Look, see how the floor is all clean? And the walls? I didn't color on them at all!"

He grabs my hand, pulling me out of there. There's no evidence of a crime.

Except...

The toilet seat is closed. Elan normally doesn't even put the seat down after using the toilet, let alone the cover. Suspicious. He tries to stop me, but I'm quicker than him. I lift the seat.

The ENTIRE underside of the toilet seat is covered in ink, a graphic pattern somewhat reminiscent of Picasso's Blue Period, spiraling its way down the base of the toilet, and curving around the back. How hadn't I noticed this at first? Clever little deceiver, my son.

Elan sighs heavily.
"Well, then, you should probably also look at my legs, Mommy," he starts, defeatedly. He lifts his pant legs. His skin is heavily tattooed.

"Oh, Elan. Whay did you do this? What were you thinking?" I ask, dampening a washcloth. I'm too tired to be angry.

"I don't know. I just had the pen, and I just don't know what happened."
All he remembers is finding the forgotten drugs in a back pocket somewhere, the inward struggle that ensued thereafter so heavy and draining that his subconscious blocked it out of memory.

I have to be supportive. After all, he had reached out for help.

"Ok, sweetheart. Help me clean this up. It's not good for your skin and it makes our house look messy. Please DON'T do this again."

There's a pregnant pause. Then:

"Well, are you even proud of me that I told the truth?"
"But you didn't, really."
"Yes, I did. I told you about what I did on my legs."
Leave it to this child to find the one positive in his behavior and glorify it.

Fine. "Yes, I'm proud that you told me the truth about that."

"So can I have a popcicle?"


Maybe not an exercise in honesty, but Elan could teach a course in opportunism.