Pants on fire

We have tried on several occasions to outline to Branson the difference between the truth and a lie.  As yet, we are still unsuccessful.  The conversation typically goes something like this:

Me: “Branson, the truth is when you say something as it actually is.  A lie is when you say something that is false. So if I, wearing a blue shirt, tell you I’m wearing a red shirt, it is a lie. Do you understand?”

B: “Yeah, Dad.”

Me: “So what does it mean to lie?”

B: “To tell you that your shirt is red.”

Last week, Sarah found that her exercise ball had been written on.  The letters “BRAN” gave us a pretty good idea of who had done it. When confronted about the issue, Branson quickly passed the blame to Harry.  While Harry enjoys creating wonderful murals of scribbles in almost every place he can find, his 2 year old  skill is not quite enough to write letters. Branson was given another chance to modify his story, but only dug his heels in deeper. 

Sarah decided that punishment for a lie consisted of bathing one’s mouth with a bar of soap and water, a tradition passed down from the Harrison family.  Branson was none too excited about the prospect of a soapy tongue, but still refused to recant.  So the ill deed was performed and the taste of soap permeated his mouth.  Cries of, “My throat is burning!” and, “It hurts my tongue!” landed on deaf ears.  Still, as any good father should, I couldn’t resist the temptation to wonder how much truth there was to his agonized shrieks. 

A second time Branson was given the chance to modify his story and rectify his situation.  But the stubbornness from both ends of his genetic makeup would not allow him to yield.  Again the claims of innocence were plead and the accusatory finger pointed.  Again the soap entered orally and the bubbles burst.

What pain! What agony! How could any reasonable parent do this to a child? Do they not understand the consternation and torment to which this four-year-old was being submitted?

Luckily, the anguish was too much and Branson conceded.  He finally admitted, beneath giant crocodile tears and with low resentful voice, to the heinous criminal act.  Within five minutes the whole ordeal was forgotten and the skip had returned to his step.

However, the guilt finally got the best of this father.  I could not in good conscience submit my child to such cruelty and dismay.  What if I had permanently damaged his vocal chords that would have surely surpassed the tenor of Andrea Bocelli, even Luciano Paverotti in both beauty and grace?  It was too much for a young demented father to endure.

So, of course, I placed the accursed bar on my tongue.  While the fragrance was pleasant, the taste was surprisingly abhorrent. But my fears of acid-like burning and painful torment were abated.  The taste buds  were the only ones in pain here.  Thank goodness no one saw me…

Anecdotally, we have been chastised for letting our child ingest soap.  Needless to say, Tabasco sauce will be the disciplinary tool of choice in the future.