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This is the deal my 6 3/4 year old cut with me. "Listen," he said, laying the cards out there on the table. "If you let me say I am seven; I'll tell people you are twenty." The negotiations started because a few weeks ago, when we were having lunch out after church, the waiter posed this question to my son: "How old are you, big guy." And as smooth as silk, my son opened his mouth and lied, "Seven." "You're not seven yet, mister." I shot back. The look my son gave me could have withered even the most optimistic flower. "Yes I am." He continued his bluff. "I am seven; almost eight." Man, this kid wasn't even going for the "just turned seven"- he was playing full tilt lying kid there with the "almost eight" lie right there on the table for all of us to see. Which brought us to the discussion. Apparently, my son is sick of being six. Six, as he sees it, is a babyish age; an age merely to endure on the road to the way more coveted seven, or the way esteemed age eight. He has decided that his birthday in June, now lurking closer than it has in months, should have actually taken place a year ago, and he should just start saying he is seven for goodness sake. "I'll tell them you are twenty." He rose his voice on the last word, as if the higher pitch would increase my temptation to take his offer. "Twenty?!" I shouted back. "No one in their right mind is going to believe I am twenty." "Why not?" He answered. "You look pretty good...... for a mom, that is." "Thanks." I felt warmed to the core of my being at that high praise. "But twenty; well, first of all, I have a SON who is almost sixteen years old! Think of that." I beseeched him to see the flaws in his great age scam. "We'll just say the two big boys are your brothers." My son had an answer for everything. "Okay, even so, but then there's you; if you are seven, almost eight, that puts me around middle school, supposedly, for having you." "It happens." He shrugged his shoulders. I wondered to myself about the jaded quality of this child who really socially was hovering around thirty more than seven. "I don't WANT to be twenty!" I finally said. "I have been twenty; it was fine at the time; but I am done with that. Besides, saying it does not make it true; and even if people think I am twenty; they'd be thinking to themselves that I looked pretty bad for twenty." "So are you going to go along with the story that I am seven?" He stared at me intently; his brown eyes boring into mine for some sort of a sign that his plan would work. When he didn't see an answer, he prodded. "Look. We can say you are THIRTY. Is that better? I mean; do you really want people to know that you'll be FORTY in a few weeks?" Ouch. The forty thing again. Only really, forty wasn't looking so bad to me these days. It seemed to me that living through the last thirty nine years had added some degree of wisdom and insight to my person; life lessons that I didn't want to be without. I answered him. "I am just going to go ahead and say I am forty." He gave me his "what are you crazy?" look and managed to ask: "But what about my seven? Can you say I am seven?" "In June, when you have your birthday; I'll shout it from the rooftops." He walked away, dejected. In his world; it is a big fat bummer having a mother who lets everyone know that you are still years away from all the "glamour" of being older: braces, glasses, acne and uncomfortable growth spurts and all that his two older brothers deal with on an ongoing basis these days. As for me, wrinkles and all; I am going to
claim my age and save the lies for more important issues, like, for
example: my bust size, and am I a natural born red-head? For these
subjects, a little stretching of the truth never hurt, and no amount of
negotiations could shake me on THESE answers.
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