I Can't Lie

I can't lie. This is not a virtue, but an annoying fact. I often wish I could lie, but I have a vividly mobile face that does not let me get away with eh-nee-thing. I always knew I was deception-challenged, but this reality was driven home to me when I told a tiny fib on Skype. (I started Skyping to get to know our exchange student before she arrives next month. She is awesome and I can't wait to be her host mom, but I'm not going to blog much about her because she might not like it). Here's the scenario:

I was "meeting" Hildy's mom for the first time, and I was terrified. She was trusting me to take care of her teenaged daughter in a foreign land for a whole year, and I wanted to make a good impression. We were talking about chocolate, and I mentioned that Silas liked chocolate. Her mom seemed slightly surprised. I thought, Oh dear! She must think I'm turning my 2-year-old into a sugar junkie, and will be a rotten host mother to her daughter. I added, "Don't worry, I only give him chocolate, and only once in a while", which is mostly true, but not completely. I happened to glance at the tiny box in the corner of my computer screen, which shows me my own face, and I was horrified to see that I had "I'm a big, fat liar" written all over my face. Not "I exaggerate sometimes", but "I'm telling you an awful untruth and I feed my toddler ice cream, cake, and candy bars for breakfast." I didn't know my face was so treacherous and dastardly. No wonder I've hardly ever been able to get away with lies, from minor exaggerations to outright falsehoods! As this revelation sunk in, I remembered telling a former boss a semi-truth that I thought was pretty plausible, and her basically calling me a liar to my face. I was furious at the time, but upon learning that my face amplifies every little feeling of guilt or sneakiness, I can't blame her!

I've always known I had a hard time pulling off lies and half-truths, so I've tried to keep them to a minimum. I do try to live a life that's pleasing to God, but there have been times it would have been really convenient to lie, and I probably would have despite my convictions that lying is a sin, but I didn't, because I knew I probably couldn't get away with it. As a result, I am more in the habit of being honest than if I had been more capable of deceit, so it's a blessing in disguise. It's also a real pain in the butt.

Zoë

I realize I don't talk or write quite as much about my daughter as I do my son. This certainly isn't because I think of her less, or find her less interesting. It's just that most folks don't find each gurgle and coo of hers as adorable as I do. But let me tell you about Zoë; she's entrancing.

She is the single most snuggly baby on the planet. She is almost five months old, with hair like Einstein or a rock star. She's my baby genius rock star. She hardly ever cries, and when she does, it's always for a good reason. I don't believe in reincarnation, but when I look in Zoë's eyes, the phrase "old soul" comes to mind. She has a very peaceful, placid look to her. She smiles benevolently upon mankind. She was born mistress of the art of Zen. (I'm not really sure what it is, but I'm pretty sure Zoë defines it). I am afraid to take her anywhere near Asia for fear someone will kidnap her and crown her the next Dalai Lama. She's "like a miniature Buddha, covered in hair," to quote Ron Burgundy.

When someone picks her up, she just nestles down on their shoulder. She lets people (even other babies) run their fingers through her hair. She doesn't complain when her toddling cousins yank on it or steal her hair barrettes. She reminds me of a therapy dog. It is impossible to stay stressed or crabby while holding this baby. If I'm stewing about something, and am enjoying my cranky, dramatic state, I stay the heck away from Zoë, because she will quickly reduce me to a mellowness before I get the chance to stomp around and bang my pots and pans.

Little babies are so pure and beautiful, it almost physically hurts me to look at them sometimes. Zoë is no exception. Some evenings, she'll open her eyes impossibly wide and just radiate love at me. Her first sentence, starting a couple weeks ago, is "I love you." She stared up at me, her whole clean heart in her eyes, saying over and over, "Ah wuv you." It kind of freaked me out. Granted, her first word was "poopoo", so that brings her down to earth a bit. She also has said "Mommy" and "Daddy" once each, and spent an hour smiling at Silas and saying, "Brudder" at him, while he toddled around and pretended not to care (with a secretly pleased expression on his face). She even said, "Brudder, Ah wuv you," a couple times. She adores her two-year-old brother, and gazes up at him in awe. She does, however, find it hilarious when he is throwing a tantrum. She laughs and grins from ear to ear. (It is pretty funny).

Well, I'd better get back to tending my hairy Zen baby. Talk to you later!