It’s a risky move. My kids are articulate and will undoubtedly rat me out if asked. Neither of them can remember where they left their shoes, but they have a gift for keeping a running inventory of anything in the house that’s either fun or delicious. But since the kids are asleep, I’m assuming that my husband won’t wake them up to corroborate my story. Hopefully he’ll forget by morning.
Truth be told, kids are an amazing resource for blame-shifters like myself. I’d never advocate lying. But when it comes to the little white lies that make life just a bit easier to navigate, or times when the truth might hurt someone’s feelings, it’s sometimes easier to blame the kids. Here, the six things I always say are their fault:
Tardiness. Sure, I was always 10 minutes late for anything before I had kids. Now I have an excuse! Everyone knows kids make it impossible for any mom to get out of the house on time.
Cancelled plans. I don’t cancel plans often, but I’m fairly certain my jilted friends would rather hear “My kid has a cold” than “I’ve got a zit the size of an asteroid on my face and I’m retaining enough water to solve California’s drought.” So in this case, lying is actually a public service. You’re welcome.
Bad smells (aka my own gas.) I don’t have a dog so I have to blame the kids. Who else would I blame? Me?
Bad manners (aka “The Kids Ate My Thank You Notes.”) Technically, it is my kids’ fault I’m so busy I can’t remember to send thank you notes, rsvp to invitations, or get birthday gifts. Sure, before I had kids I didn’t spend my entire weekend running from one bounce house birthday party to another, but I also never forgot to the thank the host either.
The times I look like a hobo. My kid’s love the word “hobo, maybe because I often look like one. I can’t be expected to look my best at school drop-off after I’ve been up all night. And yes, technically I was up all night mainlining back-to-back Scandal episodes. But I could have very easily been up with a teething child or a sick one, I just wasn’t.
Eating the last anything. No, my kids can’t actually reach any food in our pantry. But if they could, they’d surely have eaten that last Malomar. So I’m not technically lying if we could time-travel to when my kids are taller.
Of course the hubs totally knows I’m lying about the cookie. Caught, I do what any blame-shifter would do when caught blaming her kids. Deny. Deny. Deny. Then, I suggest we get a dog. I need someone to blame stuff on!