The only birds and the bees I was thinking about were flying around Los Angeles when my almost five year old asked, “Mommy, remember
that picture when your belly is big because I am inside it? How did I get out?”
 |
| (Clearly an early pregnancy pic, but I couldn't resist the brag about my dog's perfect timing) |
Wishing I had been in a Taxi Cab Confessional rigged
with lipstick cameras instead of my SUV filled with Diet Coke and fruit roll
ups, I fumbled for an age-appropriate answer that would satisfy her
curiosity. But I did not lie.
I chose “I went into the hospital and a doctor helped me get
you out”, and if any of you take issue with that, you can keep your
reproductive organs to yourself.
I have been thinking a lot lately about the little mistruths
I tell my girls. They aren’t big,
but make life easier and often healthier for all of us. Something like “Sorry girls, the W (their
pet name for Wienerschnitzel) is closed” can work wonders.
Lance Armstrong said a major motivator in his decision to
come clean was that he could no longer lie to his growing son. Bill Clinton had to
tell the world (and Chelsea) that he really did have a party in his pants, to which only Monica Lewinsky
was invited. And one of my
all-time favorite athletes, Oscar De La Hoya, finally admitted to a dark
history with drugs, alcohol and... much more.
Obviously the list goes on and on, both in and outside of
the spotlight. We are all human. The question is whether I want
my children to know that, and when.
Do I want my kids to know what happened that college night at Dick’s Last Resort, or what caused me to think that the melons in my
hometown grocery store were engulfing me? Yes, eventually.
I can get rid of photos and take down the blog posts, but I don’t want
to. Hopefully, we learn from our
mistakes. Hopefully, we become
better people and better parents because of them. And, hopefully, our children are stronger adults for it.
Hopefully...
