They say the truth comes from the mouth of babes. This may be true, except that sometimes, lies also come out of the mouths of babes, and then everyone's so busy believing trite platitudes about the truth that they assume the lies are truths and awkward awkwardness ensues.
This came to play the other day (and several times since) when I went to the wonderful world that is Walmart. Dear Sweet Son was in the cart, charming people with his winning smile as usual, trying to grab energy shots (which we know toddlers need quite much) off the shelves of the checkout line.
As we got the the cashier, DSS decided to woo two middle-aged female employees with his great charms. They succumbed instantly and began cooing over him in broken English (and I say this with love, as someone who spoke broken English for quite some time), patting his bare feet (bare due to the bizarre toddler need to instantly remove all footwear), and patting his adorable buzzcut. He smiled his smile, turned around and directed their attention to the entrance of the bathroom (conveniently located near the register).
He then proceeded to whisper in a winningly-cute shouting sort of tone, a highly important piece of information:
The two lovely ladies, however, appeared to believe his every word. They looked at me, concerned, as if trying to figure out if they had correctly understood his Frenchly-accented English, looked at me as though to say, "So YOU'RE the one who poops in our bathrooms!?!"
No. No I am not.
I laughed a hearty, devil-may-care laugh, as if to say, "Silly kids! Full of completely nonsensical untrue untruth! Har-dee-har."
In reality, which is what happened outside of my head, I turned a crimson color and stammered, "No! No, I don't go poop there! I've never gone poop in there and I have no idea where he got that idea!"
Meanwhile, my traitorous child repeated this piece of information with an innocent, persuasive look upon his traitorous face. Pointed innocently to the bathroom, eyes wide open. Looked at the two ladies with doe eyes meant to convey he was a pawn, dragged into a public bathroom for my pooping pleasure.
The ladies' bathroom sign taunted me (ok, I realize that in the picture, it slightly resembles an ad for a naughty nightclub of sorts, but it was supposed to convey taunting-ness) as I hustled my little Benedict Arnold out of the Walmart, the two little ladies still staring at us wide-eyed with shock and disbelief.
Lest you think this story stops here, it doesn't. Let me tell you something about Targets and Walmarts and such: their bathrooms are all right by the cash register. Every time we leave the store, my DSS will shout, "Mommy poops here!"
And I still don't.
Not even at Target, which has nicer bathrooms with far less toilet paper on the floor.
This came to play the other day (and several times since) when I went to the wonderful world that is Walmart. Dear Sweet Son was in the cart, charming people with his winning smile as usual, trying to grab energy shots (which we know toddlers need quite much) off the shelves of the checkout line.
As we got the the cashier, DSS decided to woo two middle-aged female employees with his great charms. They succumbed instantly and began cooing over him in broken English (and I say this with love, as someone who spoke broken English for quite some time), patting his bare feet (bare due to the bizarre toddler need to instantly remove all footwear), and patting his adorable buzzcut. He smiled his smile, turned around and directed their attention to the entrance of the bathroom (conveniently located near the register).
He then proceeded to whisper in a winningly-cute shouting sort of tone, a highly important piece of information:
This was a blatant lie. I do not, in fact, poop in the Walmart bathroom. In fact, I cannot think of the last time I pooped in a Walmart bathroom ever, even before he was born.
The two lovely ladies, however, appeared to believe his every word. They looked at me, concerned, as if trying to figure out if they had correctly understood his Frenchly-accented English, looked at me as though to say, "So YOU'RE the one who poops in our bathrooms!?!"
No. No I am not.
I laughed a hearty, devil-may-care laugh, as if to say, "Silly kids! Full of completely nonsensical untrue untruth! Har-dee-har."
In reality, which is what happened outside of my head, I turned a crimson color and stammered, "No! No, I don't go poop there! I've never gone poop in there and I have no idea where he got that idea!"
Meanwhile, my traitorous child repeated this piece of information with an innocent, persuasive look upon his traitorous face. Pointed innocently to the bathroom, eyes wide open. Looked at the two ladies with doe eyes meant to convey he was a pawn, dragged into a public bathroom for my pooping pleasure.
The ladies' bathroom sign taunted me (ok, I realize that in the picture, it slightly resembles an ad for a naughty nightclub of sorts, but it was supposed to convey taunting-ness) as I hustled my little Benedict Arnold out of the Walmart, the two little ladies still staring at us wide-eyed with shock and disbelief.
Lest you think this story stops here, it doesn't. Let me tell you something about Targets and Walmarts and such: their bathrooms are all right by the cash register. Every time we leave the store, my DSS will shout, "Mommy poops here!"
And I still don't.
Not even at Target, which has nicer bathrooms with far less toilet paper on the floor.
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