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If you can’t lie to children, what’s the point of having them?

On my last birthday when my niece, Hannah, asked how old I was I told her 16. I’d forgotten all about it until she called me sobbing last week.

“Auuuuuunt Sarah…. Daddy said you’re a grown up.”

“Honey your dad is a big, fat liar.”

“He is?”

“Yes. I’m 16 years old and that is not an adult. Don’t ever listen to him again.”

She sniffled for a minute and said, “OK, I won’t.”

Fast forward to last night, when I met the twins and their mom at the Gateway mall for some dinner and shopping.


Hannah and I were paying for a purchase at Urban Outfitters when the cashier asked for my driver’s license.

As I handed it over Hannah said, “Aunt Sarah I’m soooo glad you FINALLY got your driver’s license since you drive me to school sometimes.”

I should have just ignored the scowl from the cashier, but no I’m the girl who has to explain everything. “Oh, don’t listen to that. I’m not really driving her around illegally. I’m just lying to her a lot more than usual.”


I’m sure that statement totally fixed her image of me. Not that I actually care, but I hate the idea of getting calls from Child Protective Services when I’m not even a parent.


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