Vol. 68 - To Tell the Truth

On when to keep it to yourself

I used to lie to Emily. A lot.

Back when we were completely green as parents, trying to figure out exactly how to do this shit (and eventually realizing there is no way to exactly do it), back when Emily and I started to venture back out into the world as adults. On those nights when it was my turn to stay behind, a solo parent to our then-only child, I told her anything by the truth.

There were little outings; a night with friends for her or band to go see for me.

Then there were bigger things. An out-of-town trip for a night and, eventually, a weekend.

When our son was around two, Emily went to Costa Rica with some of her closest friends from our years in New York City. And when she returned, I straight up lied directly to her face.

“Everything was great,” I told her. “He was a total champ. Slept like a boss. Ate like a lineman. Cooperated like he’s never cooperated before.”

Why?

Because what good would it do her to know that that weekend was an unmitigated disaster, one in which our little boy didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, and didn’t cooperate? One which reduced the both of us to tears on a multitude of occasions.

If Emily knew how tough it was, she might never venture out into the world again. And that’s the last thing I wanted.

We’re a few years down the line now, with a whole other human being added to our gaggle, and generally more experienced as parents and partners. With that experience comes more ability to be out in the world, to start to resume our lives as adults with friends and interests and passions.

And sometimes, when she goes out for a night or a weekend and she calls or FaceTimes to check in on us, I tell Emily the truth, whatever it may be.

But still, sometimes, like the old days, I lie through my teeth and tell her that everything’s going great.

Does she believe me? I don’t know. Maybe she does. Maybe she just pretends to. Maybe that’s her own way of feeling comfortable when she’s away from us.

Does she lie to me when I’m away (as I will be this coming weekend)? I don’t know. And I don’t plan to ask.

Because what good would it do anyone—especially when we’re several states or sometimes entire countries away—to know that shit’s not going great at home?

Last week, Emily went to visit her sister who was out in the mountains of North Carolina. She was gone for one night, four hours to our west, and things went generally fine for me and the kids.

Of course, as there always will be when there’s a five-year-old and a two-year-old in your house, we had some hiccups, bumps, and bruises. In our case, there was a five-year-old’s face covered in permanent marker and a two-year-old who got stuck in the wall for a little while (don’t ask).

But as far as Emily was concerned, the kids were great. Dad was even better. Everything was fine. Why? Because in the end, everything was fine. And why would she need to know anything more?