The
Thompsons came to visit us in Oregon. About five years earlier, our family had left
the Thompsons, and others, in Arizona. Reunited, our respective families did a
number of activities together that week. I hadn’t remembered the Thompsons
terribly well — I was only three when we moved to Oregon — and thus felt no
real allegiance to them. But their visit brought a number of fun activities,
like hiking and paddle boating, and in this instance, lunch at a restaurant; so
I had no real objection to it all.
We
finished our lunches, and the grownups sat and talked about who knows what.
Nothing interesting to me; probably catching up on things and reminiscing. Their
conversation meandered, and all I could think about was the possibility of dessert.
I don’t remember if lunch was satisfying or not, but when your age is still in
single digits, there’s always room for treats.
I
poked my mom. “I want dessert!” I whispered, not that quietly.
“We
have ice cream at home, in the big freezer downstairs,” she dismissed. “You can
wait till we get home.”
The
adults carried on, and I sat there slightly more patient than before, my
stomach anticipating the big freezer’s goodies. The restaurant was pretty far
from home — farther than I would prefer given the circumstances. But what’s a powerless
kid to do?
My
parents dropped me off at the house, then drove away to spend more time with
the Thompsons. I swung open the front door and scurried to the basement, to our
big white freezer. Hoisting up the freezer door, I peered inside, eyes darting
to the normal spot where we kept the ice cream.
Strangely,
there sat only frozen loaves of white bread.
How
odd. No matter. Someone must have put the ice cream elsewhere in the freezer. I
reached my arm in and rummaged under the frozen bread. Nothing there.
Under
the frozen fruit, perhaps.
Still,
nothing. It was a deep freezer — maybe the ice cream was buried somewhere
beyond my reach. Unlikely, though. Ice cream was a treasured commodity in our
house. It would never stay in our freezer long enough to get buried underneath
some frozen bread.
The
smaller freezer in our kitchen! Of course. All this worry for nothing. I rushed
back upstairs, opened the freezer door high above my head, and craned my neck
upward looking for an indication of ice cream. No sign. I scooted the stool over
and hopped on, bringing me eye level with the freezer. More rummaging, but
still no luck.
At
this point, I started to worry.
There
was one more spot: a second freezer in the basement, that, as I could remember,
never stored anything immediately edible. A long shot, sure, but the treats had
to be somewhere. Right? I walked back downstairs, my little shred of hope
fighting a losing battle with growing skepticism.
As
I suspected, the second basement freezer was ice cream-less. With a heavy
heart, I retraced my steps, digging methodically through each freezer. But it
was a lost cause. I sat down, my growing hunger pains mingled with confusion.
Why had my mom made such claims about ice cream in the big freezer? There was
none there — of that I was now certain. At the restaurant, she sounded so
reassuring; so confident. This gross parental error left my faith shaken. I
mean, what kind of mom doesn’t know the status of ice cream in her own home? If
I couldn’t trust her with this, what other parental duties were now in
question? My young mind was deeply troubled as I waited in silence for them to
return home.
Eventually,
my parents pulled into the driveway, and I nervously anticipated the impending
conversation. Somehow, I knew I sat on the cusp of facts that would forever
change my worldview.
My
gut was right. I asked my mom about the location of the “ice cream,” and she
told me we didn’t have any. This only caused me more confusion. If she knew we
didn’t have ice cream, why did she say we did? She explained that the Thompsons
paid for lunch that day, and to make them buy me dessert would have been rude. But
her explanation didn’t console me. This realization, that my mom had lied to
me, hurt deeply, in a particular way I had never before experienced. I felt betrayed,
and the sting lingered throughout the afternoon. Perhaps longer.
Realizing
that my parents were capable of lying
to me was life changing. And, though I couldn’t identify it at the time, a
deeper hurt came from seeing how quickly my parents would lie to me when it was
socially convenient.
In
retrospect, though, I appreciate my mother’s decision to come clean with me,
and explain why she lied. After all, it would have been easier for her, when
confronted by her hungry, confused son, to lie again and say she mistakenly thought
we had ice cream. Or something like that. And, looking back, I can remember all the times my parents chose honesty with me, even when it was markedly inconvenient.
Sure, my parents are liars. But so am I. So is everybody. Gratefully, though, my parents' honesty far, far outweighs their deceit, to a degree I can only dream of matching when I have kids. But I won't get ahead of myself here. It's 2 a.m., and I could really go for some ice cream. If only I had some in my freezer...
