I remember the day as if it was yesterday. My mother bought me some new white socks. They were knee-highs and I believe she intended for me to wear them to church. She made such a big thing about them you would have thought they cost a million dollars.
We were not poor. I am not sure why she placed such importance on this item, maybe because they were white.
As a young girl my favorite thing to do on the farm was to go outside in the summer time. I would make mud pies out in the yard. I would play in the garage in my play house which would always contain a collection of wasps and flies, as well as dust and dirt. Other days I would romp around with my brother, playing football and faking claustrophobia when he tackled me.
It didn’t take long for those new socks to find themselves on my feet and my feet to be running outside to play.
As luck would have it my Dad was painting something on the yard. He was painting that something with John Deere green paint.
He asked me if I wanted to try painting and then gave me a brush and some paint. He told me I could paint a bit on the concrete in front of the shed he was working on.
So I grabbed that brush, stuck it in the paint and started to transform the concrete into a bright green. It was but a minute when I noticed that I was effectively not only painting the concrete but I was also splattering that grass green paint on my new white socks.
I was horrified. My mother was not one to take things such as this lightly. I knew I would be screamed at.
What was I to do?
First, I tried to eliminate the evidence. I scurried inside and tried to wash out the green, having no such luck, I resorted to plan B. I would hide the socks in my closet.
That I did, the wet green and white socks were crumpled up in a ball and hid on a shelf in my closet.
They stayed there for quite some time until my mother smelled something off in my closet. (blast it, I didn’t think of mildew ruining my plan B) She pulled the socks from their hiding place and asked me very kindly about the blob.
I, of course, feigned complete ignorance as to what the blob was and told a “white” lie.
It was wrong of me to do so and I did feel guilty.
As an adult I understand the reason for my lie. My mother had always given the impression to me that things were much more important to her than my feelings.
If, as a child, I had known that my mother loved me more than those white socks, I would have been truthful. I would have known that although there would be a talk about keeping things clean this talk would have been followed by a hug and affirmation of my worth as a child.
Children lie when they are fearful of the truth hurting them. If a parent understands this dynamic they will make the environment for the child one of comfort when confronting them.
It is difficult, if not impossible, to lie in the presence of unconditional love.