The truth is overrated

I want someone to lie to me. Really I do. Not a big you'll end in jail kind of lie. Just a harmless little fib. Living in a house with an analytical thinker and and a brain wired courtesy of autism, you don't get lied to much. Generally this is a good – even enviable or desirable. But there are those instances when only a white lie will do.

Case and point:

Sam: Mommy is a pest.
Me: You think Mommy is a pest?
Sam: Yes. Pest.

Me: How does this look?
Tony: Kind of makes you look fat.
Sam: Mommy is fat.
Me: Thank you. You both look wonderful, too.

Sam: Stop singing Mommy.
Me: Don't you like my singing?
Sam: No. Mommy stop singing.

Me: How do you like the brussell sprouts?
Tony: They aren't horrible. They kind of taste like dirt.

Me: Sam, eat your veggies, please.
Sam: Mommy is a big pest. Not a little pest. A big pest.

Tony: Wow. You don't look so good today.
Me: Thanks. You look great, too.

Me: Do you like my shoes?
Tony: They are kind of ugly.
Me: Thank you.

Me: Sammy, who do you love?
Sam: Fiona.
Me: Good to know.

Tony: (After looking at old pictures) Wow. We look old.
Me: Thank you. Kind of you to share that comment.

Sam: Mommy is a dope.
Me: Sammy, where do you learn this stuff. Mommy is not a dope.
Sam: Mommy is a dope.

Me: Maybe they remember us because we're snappy dressers.
Tony: No. That's not it. You don't dress that well.

All I can say is thank you, Tony and Sam for sharing all those candid thoughts. I've got honesty coming at me every which way.

Now please, just for a day. Don't tell me what you are thinking. I don't want to know what's really running through your mind. Just once. Tell me what I want to hear.

Like I said, the truth is overrated. At least at my house.

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