Wearing only her Tinkerbell underwear and two pink clips in her hair, she hops nervously back and forth, from one foot to the other. We’re at Evelyn’s four year pediatric check-up and she looks at me with those enormous brown eyes and asks the question I’ve been dreading.
“Do I have to get shots, Mom?” she asks, wringing her little hands.
I take a deep breath. Lie, lie, lie! the peace-keeping part of my brain screams. Tell her it will be all puppy dogs and lollipops! Do anything you can to delay the moment when she will realize what is to come. Alas, no, it can’t be. At four years old she is already more aware and perceptive than I knew a child could possibly be. Lying to her would not only be wrong, but would also backfire once the truth was revealed as the nurse attacked her with the giant, child-torturing needle. Was it better to let her live in terror, and what would most likely be a state of extreme resistance, for the duration of the exam if I told the truth? Would a white lie suffice? Aren’t you always supposed to be honest with your children? (Mothers of the world will insert wild laughter at this question because, as we know, it’s just not possible or even wise to be completely honest with them all the time- The playground is closing now…They are all out of ice cream at this grocery store, sweetie…Of course you like peas…). But I tell her the truth.
“I don’t know, honey. Let’s ask the doctor,” I say, then quickly change the subject.
Ok, so the whole truth is that I am about 90% sure that shots are in her near future, but not completely sure, so it’s not a lie, right? I think, probably to the point of obsession sometimes, about how to make good choices as a parent. Organic food, scheduled bed times, educational toys, supportive sneakers. Those things are difficult in the sense that it is often easier to give them M&M’s, not fight the bed time battle, and let them play with plastic swords while wearing flip-flops. But in the never-ending attempt to do the right thing for your kids, you run up against these moral questions like the whole lying thing.
I know one day, in the near future, my daughter will lose her first tooth. (May the squeamish part of me pause here to say, “Ewwww!”) I will then have to decide- Tooth Fairy or not? It’s a lie, even worse than Santa, since there is no religious or even really a long-standing cultural link for the Tooth Fairy. The upside to telling this particular lie is two-fold: losing teeth is kind of traumatic and the promise of a reward may just smooth the path, and, perhaps more importantly, other kids will be talking about the dollar (or the twenty dollars or the iPad or whatever else) their particular Tooth Fairy left for them. Do I want my kids left out of that conversation? It’s hard to decide. Honesty is not always a sunny day.
Recently facing those brown eyes and their persistent questions, Evelyn and I talked about death. She wanted to know if she was getting older. I told her yes. She asked if everyone gets older. I said yes. She wanted to know if people die when they get old. Knowing what I was in for but, again, not wanting to lie, I told her yes, eventually everyone dies. She looked at me for a long moment then burst into tears.
“I don’t feel like I want to diiiiiiiiiie!” she howled.
“I know, honey. But don’t be upset. It’s not something you have to worry about for a long long time,” I tried to convince her. She calmed down a bit, but then I could see a new, and even worse horror occur to her innocent mind. She climbed into my lap, her small hands grabbed for me, clinging desperately around my neck.
“Mom…..are YOU gonna die?” she squealed. Oh dear. I really asked for that one. We talked our way through it, though, and she eventually lost interest in the conversation. But every so often now, when I remind her to drink her milk or eat her veggies since they will make her healthy, she lifts an eyebrow at me and reminds me to do the same, ordering me to stay alive for as long as possible. And, well, she’s right.
So back in the doctor’s office, Evelyn bombards the pediatrician with the same question the moment she opens the door. The doctor gives her a smile and a quick “we’ll see!” before conducting the exam. When she’s done she looks at me and confirms that there will indeed be two quick “inoculations” today, then swiftly leaves the room to firmly detach herself from the scene which is about to ensue. I must admit a brief moment of envy, wishing I could somehow skip the next five minutes. I start to tell Evelyn the bad news, but before she can really react, the door swings open.
Like a pair of ninja spies, two nurses storm the exam room.
“Hi sweetie!” one says cheerfully, looking at Evelyn. “Ok, mom, help her lay on the table please,” she says to me, in an undertone. I swiftly obey, motivated by their stealthy, efficient manner.
“What pretty toenail polish you have!” says the other as she grabs Evelyn’s feet, pining them down.
“Mom, grab her hands,” ninja nurse number one says under her breath, and she reaches for my daughter’s pale thigh. I do as she says and Evelyn starts to protest and twist around to try and see what they are doing.
“Look at Mommy, baby,” I say nervously, not believing for one instant that she will, tensing my own body for what I know she is about to feel as the first shot goes in. Evelyn turns towards me, eyes filled with accusation, face aghast, as a wild, rolling howl erupts from her mouth. The second shot has already gone in, only adding anger to the pain. One nurse is already out the door, but the second turns back as I gather my wailing child in my arms.
“I really didn’t want to do that one. She is just so cute!” she said, closing the door behind her. (I’m not sure ninja spies are supposed to say something like that, but still).
This was a small case in the overall “being honest with your kids” question, but for me, a significant one. Now that she is four, and just too darn smart for her own good, I have to loosen up on that idea of making everything ideal for her. It’s a natural mindset, I suppose, developed from the days of first caring for a newborn and thinking primarily of their comfort, padding (both literally and figuratively) everything in their little world to protect them. But bumps and scrapes, and I really do believe this, make them stronger and teach them lessons, whether they be mental or physical. Horrible as it feels, I know it’s important for a girl, even one as young as four, to know that people die and shots have to happen. Honesty builds trust, of course, and even though her brown eyes flashed anger at me for just a moment, somehow linking me to that pain, she still turned towards me for comfort and will eventually learn that such things are part of life. I held her for as long as she needed, until the tears dried and the sting went away. Well, ok, I held her longer than that, for my own sting, until she started inquiring about reward stickers and we got up to leave. Honesty, just like the shots, can hurt. Sometimes it hurts a lot. But in the end, as they will come to realize, it’s necessarily and ultimately good for them.
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