Liar Liar Pants On Fire

 

Mr. C is amusing because he's turned into a tattle-tale. I'm so proud, because he totally gets it from me.

Of course, I was a very obnoxious tattle-tale. Until I was twelve, I felt it my duty to immediately report any peer or sibling to Those In Authority, were said peers or siblings not performing as expressly commanded by Those In Authority. It was with some surprise and confusion that I noted that Those In Authority eventually seemed unenthusiastic about my helpful observations that Tommy wasn't coloring in his map like he was supposed to and that Sister had left a pea on her plate.

Years later, after I'd gotten the tattle-taleness kicked out of my system, I read somewhere that tattling in young kids is actually a sign of above-intelligence, as it shows the child has a clear understanding of justice and is concerned with fairness and equality. Or something like that . . . I'm not smart enough to remember.

It's a shame, though, because adults don't really like snitches, even if snitches are just making sure people are doing what has been asked of them. Perhaps it's because tattle-tales make us have to actually reinforce our commandments, instead of allowing us to pretend that we don't see bad behavior. So I found little comfort, as a child, in tattling; not only did I feel the injustice of a peer not doing what the rest of us were supposed to do, but I felt the confusing powerlessness when Those In Authority apparently didn't care.

And now Mr. C is tattling. His tattling is funny, though, because he mostly tells on himself.

The other day, for instance, as we were leaving the gym's daycare, I asked him if he had had fun.

“I don't see Miss Shelly,” he replied, referencing the daycare worker.

“You didn't see Miss Shelly?,” I repeated. “Why not?”

“Because,” he said very seriously, “I break de markers.”

Upon later investigation, I found out through Miss Shelly that he had indeed broken crayons while there. Miss Shelly, apparently, was not very concerned, so I never would have known had Mr C not tattled on himself.

Then there are all the times he gleefully runs up to me to report that he touched the tiles, which means he stepped close to the forbidden woodstove, or when he informs us that he wasn't nice to Kitty.

What's funniest, however, is to whom he does transfer blame.

“I told you not to touch the oven,” I'll yell (to his back, as he's screeching out of the kitchen).

“I no touch owen,” he calls back, waving his stuffed animal. “Piggy touch owen.”

So, not only does he apparently posses above-intelligence, but he shows imagination and problem-solving.

I'm so proud.