Parents are liars, they really are.
I’ll start with the obvious fibs they tell their kids. “Be good and Santa Claus will bring you presents!” “So you’ve lost a tooth; don’t worry, the Tooth Fairy is on her way!” “Yes, it is sad that Jesus was nailed to the cross, but I know what will cheer you up: the Easter Bunny! A basket full of chocolate and jelly beans totally makes up for someone being crucified!”
Then there are all of the times they say, “Maybe” or “I’ll think about it” or “Let me talk to your mother/father”. That’s simply code for “Hell no, but I don’t have the energy right now for an argument, so this is my way of putting you off.”
But the biggest, most annoying, grandest ‘I say one thing but actually mean another’ lie they tell is this: “You know that you can talk to me about anything, right? Whatever it is, I’m here and I promise I won’t freak out.”
Maybe they think they mean that, but they don’t. I swear, it’s like right before we’re born, parents watch a movie where they hear an actor say that to their kid and the kid says “I’m finding math really difficult right now, Dad”, and then dad says “I know, son. I had the same problem when I was your age”, and then the kid asks “What did you do about it?”, and dad answers “My parents got me a tutor and I passed with flying colours. Would you like your Mom and me to get you a tutor?”, and the kid says “Gee, would you? Thanks Dad! You’re so easy to talk to”, and then junior grows up to be a world class mathematician. God, it’s like fairytales for grownups.
Someone needs to show expectant parents a movie about what’s really on our minds. Maybe if my Dad had seen one, he wouldn’t have kept pestering me to tell him why I was in such a grouchy mood today. I tried to spare him, I really did, but he kept insisting, so to shut him up I told him exactly why his precious sixteen-year-old daughter was not walking on the sunny side of the street.
“Have your insides ever felt like they were a washing machine where the load was off balance? It’s pounding and pounding, like a prisoner who has been left in solitary for too long, and that thingy that swishes the clothes around – what’s it called? Oh yeah, the agitator. The agitator twists and twists, hungry for those clothes to somehow make their way back to the middle so it can tear them to shreds. That’s how my uterus feels right now. Only my stupid boyfriend doesn’t think me having my period is a good enough excuse for not having sex this week. ‘What about a hand job?’ he asked. ‘Or you could go down on me.’ Men are such jerks.”
“Is that Buddy barking to get back in? I should go check before the neighbours complain,” was all he said in response.
If you don’t want to know the answer, then don’t ask the question. That’s just basic common sense.