The little ones? They're getting suspicious.
I tuck the girl into bed a little earlier than usual. "You're getting sick," I tell her. "You need extra sleep."
Her eyes are glazed, her cheeks are pink and she manages to stop coughing only long enough to hiss her accusation: "You lie," she says. "That's just what grown-ups say when they want to be left alone."
Was it too much C-SPAN or was she on to us?
"You're right," I say. "Sleep is the last thing you need. You should be outside picking up leaves." My sarcasm doesn't fool her. She watches me closely as I leave the room. I can't risk my usual bedtime dance outside the door.
The next morning brings fever, headache, an unsettled stomach. She throws up, falls back asleep, wakes up hungry. I give her toast, 7-Up, oatmeal. She wants chocolate chip cookies and milk. "No," I say. "You can't have chocolate or milk when you have a sick stomach."
"You lie," she says again. "You just don't want me to have any cookies."
Later, as I eat the last of the cookies that will bolster my immune system and guarantee me a lifetime of superior health, I begin to worry.
We've been lying to the children for so long, about so many things. Pretty much everything, really. Had we gotten careless somewhere along the line? Or was it just the ibuprofen talking?
How much does she know?
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