…the lies children tell.
Like:
- I didn’t bend the whirlybird washing line arm at right angles, it was him! *points at one year old*
- I’ve brushed my teeth *toothpaste still on brush, which isn’t even wet*
- It wasn’t me *standing in front of pen marks on the wall, holding a pen of the same colour whilst waiting for the pen to dry*
- I didn’t mean it, it was an accident! *refusing to look at the nail varnish painted carefully on the wall between the slates of the headboard*
- I’ve done my homework! *unable to satisfactorily describe either the location of bookbag or the contents of homework*
- I’ve tidied my room. Properly. *bedroom door only opens a sliver due to huge amount of stuff piled up behind it*
We’re having trouble with the boy and Fifi lying at the moment. Danger isn’t but then he’s not speaking much yet (aside from occasionally shouting Ghostbusters and repeating what you say). The boy has even been telling fibs to his teacher, which I find utterly unacceptable and very out of character.
Generally we’re coming down hard on it, harder than the actual crime that’s been committed in the first place. Yes, I’d rather Fifi didn’t redecorate her room with nail varnish but I’d much rather she owned up to it and told me the truth when she does it. And poor old Danger is getting the short end of the stick in all of it; he’s blamed for pretty much everything and can’t defend himself against the outrageous accusations.
And so the quest for truth continues…