Wednesday, January 14, 2015

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Lies I Tell My Children and What They Really Mean



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I lie to my three kids all the time (7, 5, and 7 months). Most of the lies are harmless motivators that seem to get results much faster than the truth. Lies about as nasty as telling children that a fat man delivers presents on the 25th of December. Long term, I’m not really sure what I’m doing to my children. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps I will be paying for counseling.

Anyway, I’m just going to go ahead and assume that I’m not alone here.

Below are a few lies I’ve told and what they really mean.


It’s past your bedtime.
Translation: I’m putting you to bed early so Mom and I can either watch a movie or have sex. Hopefully both.

Have a good life! I hope the people of Target feed you.
Translation: If I have to spend one more moment looking at Pokémon cards I’m going to light something on fire. Since you won’t leave voluntarily I’m going to pretend like I’m abandoning you.

I’ve heard eating your boogers can make you blind.
Translation: Stop eating your F*%king boogers.

I don't have any money on me.
Translation: I’m not buying that stupid piece of shit.

A bus in a Wal-Mart parking lot once hit your uncle. That’s why he limps.
Translation: Hold my hand while walking through the parking lot.

I hear department stores hide trolls up there.
Translation: Stop climbing on the shelves.

We can’t afford a dog. They are really expensive.
Translation: Why would I buy something that can’t crap in a toilet? I have you for that.

There are no cookies left.
Translation: There are actually two cookies left. But if we don’t save them for your mother, there will be hell to pay.

Your uncle once got a fungus from not changing his underwear. They had to sew his butt shut.
Translation: Stop fighting me and change your underwear.

If you play with it, it'll fall off.
Translation: I’m trying to keep you from becoming that guy on the subway with his hand in his gym shorts.

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Clint Edwards was blessed with a charming and spitfire wife, a video game obsessed little boy, a snarky little girl in a Cinderella play dress, and an angry baby girl. When Clint was 9-years-old his father left. With no example of fatherhood, he had to learn how to be a father and husband through trial and error. His work has been featured in Good Morning America, The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Huffington Post, Scary Mommy, The Good Men Project, Fast Company, and elsewhere. He lives in Oregon. Follow him on Facebook and Twitter

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