The Weight of Words: Guiding Children Towards Truth and Integrity
Parenting November 17, 2024
My 5-year-old son was in the street of a small village, and toward us came a car.
I was there. Attentive.
He was tagging along with me. We were returning home from collecting sea water in a jug for an experiment.
I instinctively moved to get him out of the street, but I didn’t have to.
He was a step ahead of me, already making his way to a safer area of the street.
As the cobblestone town had been constructed before World War II, there were no sidewalks of the modern world.
Even the wooden front doors were chambered with brass lion paws you’d raise and lower to knock with, like something the French town depicted in the Disney classic: Beauty and the Beast.
At first, I praised him. I was proud that he was inheriting my otherwise hard-earned reflexes and situational awareness.
But then I saw a trait of mine that I didn’t like and worked very hard over years to drop: ”I could see the car coming. I could hear it. And I could smell the smoke from the engine,” he said.
I almost hadn’t noticed it.
But my daughter did: “Wait…you smelled the engine? We were down wind. No you didn’t!”
“Yes, I did!” He insisted.
“No…you didn’t! You said you could smell the smoke from the car, but we were downwind and the car wasn’t smoking! Daaaaddyyyyy!!! [Name]’s lyinggggg!”
“You are right,” I nodded. “He is.”
There was a minor punishment for it: He wasn’t allowed to spend the night with me in the tent tonight.
I didn’t yell or anything. I just simply removed the privilege of nighttime story time for a night, as I have a camping tent set up on our backyard terrace for the kids to stargaze while listening to me tell stories and cook food.
I use the backyard camping as a method of training them in survival skills in a totally controlled, safe, and easy environment as I prepare them for their first actual hike with me to one of the nearby historical sites next month.
Later on, I called him to his room with me. I asked his sister and other siblings to leave us with some privacy.
This is what I told him (not exact words as I said a lot that’s hard to remember everything with absolute accuracy):
“Hey, uhh…you know it’s not good to exaggerate, right?” I spoke softly, my goal being to conversationally relate with him.
He sniffed. Trying to hold back tears of shame.
I continued, “Do you know what it means to ‘exaggerate’?”
He sniffled a little snot back up his nose, “No…”
“To exaggerate means to see something small but act like it is big. It’s like truthfully lifting five pounds but telling everyone you lifted twenty-five. Do you understand?”
He sniffled again, but nodded.
“You know…when I was your age, I was just like you. I’d exaggerate and lie a lot.”
“Really!?!? *You*!?!?”
“I sure did. But I had a reason for it. I was ashamed of my daddy. Are you ashamed of yours?”
He shook his head, “No.”
“Does daddy sell bad medicine?” I used the term “bad medicine” to explain to their child minds what narcotics were.
He shook his head no.
“Does daddy hurt people? Or do bad things? Does he make bad money?”
He shook his head no.
“Okay, then you don’t have the same reasons to lie. Because I’ll tell you what, once you tell one lie, you have to tell another and another and another in order to keep the first lie together. And suddenly, before you know it, you are enslaved by lies. Trapped by them. Like an animal in a cage. Do you want to be trapped by your lies?”
He shook his head no.
“Good. And I’ll tell you what, when you lie a lot, two things can happen. One of them is the worst possible. Do you know what they are?”
“People won’t believe you.”
“No, that’s not the worst thing, actually. That’s the first thing but not the worst thing. Firstly, yes, people will stop believing you. But you know the worst thing?”
He shook his head no.
“The worst thing is when people actually *do*. When people actually *do* believe you. Do you know why?”
He looked confused. He shook his head no.
“It’s the worst when people actually believe your lies because then you will always have to do the impossible to keep them believing you. That’s painful. That’s suffering. You will always be suffering to live up to a version of yourself that isn’t real. Do you understand this?”
He nodded yes.
“What should you do to free yourself from this?”
He sniffled with tears in his eyes, “Not tell lies?”
“Very good. There is nothing like freeing yourself from all the pain by just telling the truth from the beginning. When I was younger, I lied about everything. Now, though…I tell the truth about everything. At least everything I can. Probably to my own detriment even. And trust me, you don’t want to feel what that pain feels like…the burning away of everything about you that is false. The people you wanted to like you. The struggle for redemption and respect. The pain of facing the harsh reality of your own limitations when you almost believed your own lies about your greatness. You don’t want that. Any of that. It’s better to tell the truth, to both others and yourself, from day one. Do you know why?”
He shook his head no.
“Because then the people who do love you are the right ones…and they love you for who you truly are. Flaws and all. Do you think mommy loves you?”
He shook his head yes, still wiping tears from his eyes.
“Do you think daddy loves you?”
He shook his head yes.
“See? I didn’t have that when I was your age. You do. Everybody loves you. The whole family loves you. Do you need to exaggerate your abilities for any of us to love you?”
He shook his head no.
“You’re not just a good boy. You’re truly great in a way that I could never be. Stay that way. Don’t ruin it by adding bells and whistles to who you are when the true you is actually better than any fiction you could say about yourself. You’re good enough. You’re more than good enough to be loved. Do you agree?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to do anything extra to be loved. That’s just my old ghost in your blood, my old genetic memories, haunting you. Let that ghost stay dead. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Give me a hug.”
And I gave him a kiss on the forehead and let him go.
I was there. Attentive.
He was tagging along with me. We were returning home from collecting sea water in a jug for an experiment.
I instinctively moved to get him out of the street, but I didn’t have to.
He was a step ahead of me, already making his way to a safer area of the street.
As the cobblestone town had been constructed before World War II, there were no sidewalks of the modern world.
Even the wooden front doors were chambered with brass lion paws you’d raise and lower to knock with, like something the French town depicted in the Disney classic: Beauty and the Beast.
At first, I praised him. I was proud that he was inheriting my otherwise hard-earned reflexes and situational awareness.
But then I saw a trait of mine that I didn’t like and worked very hard over years to drop: ”I could see the car coming. I could hear it. And I could smell the smoke from the engine,” he said.
I almost hadn’t noticed it.
But my daughter did: “Wait…you smelled the engine? We were down wind. No you didn’t!”
“Yes, I did!” He insisted.
“No…you didn’t! You said you could smell the smoke from the car, but we were downwind and the car wasn’t smoking! Daaaaddyyyyy!!! [Name]’s lyinggggg!”
“You are right,” I nodded. “He is.”
There was a minor punishment for it: He wasn’t allowed to spend the night with me in the tent tonight.
I didn’t yell or anything. I just simply removed the privilege of nighttime story time for a night, as I have a camping tent set up on our backyard terrace for the kids to stargaze while listening to me tell stories and cook food.
I use the backyard camping as a method of training them in survival skills in a totally controlled, safe, and easy environment as I prepare them for their first actual hike with me to one of the nearby historical sites next month.
Later on, I called him to his room with me. I asked his sister and other siblings to leave us with some privacy.
This is what I told him (not exact words as I said a lot that’s hard to remember everything with absolute accuracy):
“Hey, uhh…you know it’s not good to exaggerate, right?” I spoke softly, my goal being to conversationally relate with him.
He sniffed. Trying to hold back tears of shame.
I continued, “Do you know what it means to ‘exaggerate’?”
He sniffled a little snot back up his nose, “No…”
“To exaggerate means to see something small but act like it is big. It’s like truthfully lifting five pounds but telling everyone you lifted twenty-five. Do you understand?”
He sniffled again, but nodded.
“You know…when I was your age, I was just like you. I’d exaggerate and lie a lot.”
“Really!?!? *You*!?!?”
“I sure did. But I had a reason for it. I was ashamed of my daddy. Are you ashamed of yours?”
He shook his head, “No.”
“Does daddy sell bad medicine?” I used the term “bad medicine” to explain to their child minds what narcotics were.
He shook his head no.
“Does daddy hurt people? Or do bad things? Does he make bad money?”
He shook his head no.
“Okay, then you don’t have the same reasons to lie. Because I’ll tell you what, once you tell one lie, you have to tell another and another and another in order to keep the first lie together. And suddenly, before you know it, you are enslaved by lies. Trapped by them. Like an animal in a cage. Do you want to be trapped by your lies?”
He shook his head no.
“Good. And I’ll tell you what, when you lie a lot, two things can happen. One of them is the worst possible. Do you know what they are?”
“People won’t believe you.”
“No, that’s not the worst thing, actually. That’s the first thing but not the worst thing. Firstly, yes, people will stop believing you. But you know the worst thing?”
He shook his head no.
“The worst thing is when people actually *do*. When people actually *do* believe you. Do you know why?”
He looked confused. He shook his head no.
“It’s the worst when people actually believe your lies because then you will always have to do the impossible to keep them believing you. That’s painful. That’s suffering. You will always be suffering to live up to a version of yourself that isn’t real. Do you understand this?”
He nodded yes.
“What should you do to free yourself from this?”
He sniffled with tears in his eyes, “Not tell lies?”
“Very good. There is nothing like freeing yourself from all the pain by just telling the truth from the beginning. When I was younger, I lied about everything. Now, though…I tell the truth about everything. At least everything I can. Probably to my own detriment even. And trust me, you don’t want to feel what that pain feels like…the burning away of everything about you that is false. The people you wanted to like you. The struggle for redemption and respect. The pain of facing the harsh reality of your own limitations when you almost believed your own lies about your greatness. You don’t want that. Any of that. It’s better to tell the truth, to both others and yourself, from day one. Do you know why?”
He shook his head no.
“Because then the people who do love you are the right ones…and they love you for who you truly are. Flaws and all. Do you think mommy loves you?”
He shook his head yes, still wiping tears from his eyes.
“Do you think daddy loves you?”
He shook his head yes.
“See? I didn’t have that when I was your age. You do. Everybody loves you. The whole family loves you. Do you need to exaggerate your abilities for any of us to love you?”
He shook his head no.
“You’re not just a good boy. You’re truly great in a way that I could never be. Stay that way. Don’t ruin it by adding bells and whistles to who you are when the true you is actually better than any fiction you could say about yourself. You’re good enough. You’re more than good enough to be loved. Do you agree?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to do anything extra to be loved. That’s just my old ghost in your blood, my old genetic memories, haunting you. Let that ghost stay dead. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Give me a hug.”
And I gave him a kiss on the forehead and let him go.
