Would I lie to you, baby? – it is acceptable to lie to your children?

As a parent, I’m guilty of lying to the Wee Man on occasion.

I remember a few months ago, when the Other Half and I were discussing an amusing misinterpretation by the Wee Man – I asked him where he thought the clouds had gone, and he replied ‘the stars ate them’ – I suddenly had a realisation that, as far as he knows, everything we tell him is true.

So at what point does a lie become unacceptable? As a society, we all lie to our children. One of the biggest examples of this is the fabrication of strange old men that break into the house at certain times of year, as well as the aforementioned strange mans furry Easter time friend, and their (increasingly wealthy, if the news is to be believed) dental compatriot.

We also lie in other ways – I am constantly telling the Wee Man that he is the cleverest, the best, and that his scribbled pictorial efforts are amazing. This is certainly not true. The likelihood of my Wee Man actually being, in real terms, the cleverest, best and most amazing is minimal, yet most parents tell their offspring the same things.

In some societies, this is not the case. In the book ‘Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, Amy Chua describes how she is told how her pictures are not good enough, and berated for even considering submitting her efforts. This has not led to a nation of depressives, so clearly this seemingly innate need to lie is not a requirement for bringing up a ‘successful’ child.

One recent lie I have perpetuated is that the tops of shampoo and toothpaste bottles and tubes clamp themselves shut after they have dispensed enough, so that Mummy is unable to open them. This seems to placate the Wee Man, who given the chance would use the entire contents every time he has a bath, or brushes his teeth. (‘Oh, sm’more, Mummy. I need more…’ being a continually heard phrase of the night-time routine).

The Wee Man’s cousins are told that the Ice Cream van is in fact a ‘broccoli van’.

And when I was a child, I informed my sister that when cut toenails are put down the toilet, they play a game of tennis (something that caused a massive confusion for my mother, frequently finding my sister with head down the toilet looking for this spectacle).

So at what point does it become a problem? Will the Wee Man’s cousins be ridiculed if they reach school age and still believe in the Broccoli van? (There goes ‘Broccoli boy’…). Will the Wee Man be crushed when one day, someone informs him his pictures are not as he has always been told, impressive works of art, but merely mediocre representations of particular subject matters?

I for one do not know. But for now he’s still my little Picasso, and the tops of the shampoo and toothpaste containers are staying firmly jammed shut.