I’m a filthy dirty liar. I have been teaching my children lying is frowned upon, and meanwhile I lie to them constantly. Sometimes it’s purely for my own sanity, “Sorry honey, that toy is broken” or “Yes, everyone in the world is going to sleep right now.” Then there are the pity lies like, “Your drawing looks just like a horse” and “Yes, you might marry Joe Jonas when you’re a bigger girl.” Although these untruths are innocuous, I’m starting to believe I’m doing my children a disservice. What’s the harm in explaining a diluted version of the truth? 



I’m not advocating we discuss suicide bombings or escaped murderers at breakfast, but why can’t we be honest about the simple facts of life? We are happy to show them pictures of our massive pregnant bellies and their post delivery gunky faces but then only allude to what really goes down. Maybe they should know if Troy sticks his penis into Gabriella’s vagina, 9 months later, we ARE all in this together. Being honest about sex isn’t going to increase the amount of teens getting pregnant; it may actually stave a few off. Show a 16 year old a picture of a fourth degree perineal tear, and I bet she thinks twice before engaging in those 5 sh*tty minutes with her boyfriend. Let’s be honest, sex doesn’t get really good until your mid-thirties anyway. I understand some may be fearful of what little kids will do with this information, but I’m telling you, my son can’t even put on his own socks. I know we’ll never be unified about this issue, but can we at least think of a better lie?  Honestly, who was the a$$hole who came up with the stork? I made my own mother take a “Silkwood” shower before I let her hold my little bundle, but I’m going to let a filthy bird carry my newborn in its beak?  



In some cases, we go to great lengths just to make sh*t up.  Honestly, in this day and age, Santa contradicts everything we teach our children. We tell them it’s dangerous to merely converse with a stranger, yet one night a year we let an unknown adult male into our home while we sleep. Sure he brings gifts, but he’s not even an emergency contact. Don’t even get me started about the Tooth Fairy. At least Santa doesn’t come upstairs. We let this kooky freak right into the bedroom. Why is there a Tooth Fairy anyway? Why not the Toenail Fairy or the Umbilical Chord Fairy? I would have killed for a fairy to come, remove that nasty thing, and leave a crisp $20 under my pillow.



When I try and tell the truth, it usually ends up like a game of telephone. My very honest “stranger talk” ended with my youngest boasting, “if your best friend gets an injured puppy then she’s not a stranger, and you eat ice cream.”  Why can’t someone write a very special Dora where she gets into a white van because they told her “Su Abula dijo que está bien.” 



Not long ago, my daughter asked me when she’s getting a step-mother. I told her hopefully never. She asked why her daddy and I both have step-mothers, and I froze. How could I tell her the truth about divorce? I don’t want her to know love falls apart or people can get so sick they die. In the end, I guess I’m OK with lying. Besides, this will give me a leg up when I become a hypocrite too. That drug talk is gonna be a doozy.

Checking The Electrical Box is a compilation of essays written by a former latch key kid, stoner, fag hag, TV producer, turned suburban SAHM. I tell it like it is and hope to create a cult following much like Jim Jones & David Koresh minus the death.