I coined a new term last night: lie-baby. It’s just like cry-baby, but instead of using it to label someone who whines and cries over nothing, it is used to describe someone who lies in multiple situations for no good reason.
It could, in fact, be used to describe me. I much prefer “lie-baby” to the poisonous sounding “pathological liar.”
I lie to my children about what’s in the fridge (“No, we are totally out of ice-cream—sorry!”), I lie to my husband about picking up his dry cleaning (“They were closed for … uh … Grandparents’ Day”; it’s a legally recognized holiday), I lie to my co-workers (“Of course those cookies I brought are homemade”), I lie to my neighbors (“I can’t pick up your newspaper because we will be out of town, too,” trumps the truth that I most likely will forget and would prefer to not embarrass myself in this way).
Lies are easy. Truth is hard.
The truth tells people you are not perfect.
It’s hard to tell your kids no dessert. It’s hard to tell your husband you forgot to do something. It’s hard to tell your co-workers you are too busy to cook from scratch. And it’s hard to tell your neighbors that you might forget the chore they assign you. Wait—is that a pattern? Forgetting?
I tell myself to write things down, maybe that way I can get things done and not have to lie about them to appease others.
I will write things down, I will.
That might be a lie.
Lie-baby decides to console herself with ice-cream, she thinks there might be still be some left in the fridge.