He hasn’t learnt the need for a white lie. He hasn’t learnt how to twist me around his little finger for more than box of raisins or a foam banana. He doesn’t know the desperation adults feel that lead them to tell a real lie. He won’t know that web of deceit that can spin around us and close us in on ourselves. He won’t know the reasons why adults lie.
When he’s sad, he cries. When he’s ill he’s limp and lethargic or clingy and grizzly. When he’s better, he smiles and he laughs and he toddles around the garden looking for tasty morsels of pea gravel. He doesn’t know about milking an illness for extra sympathy.
When he’s tired, he sleeps and when he’s awake, he likes company. He doesn’t understand the necessity of the adult’s early morning rules: never before 6 am is not a rule he understands… yet.
One day he will learn that some things he is yet to discover are actually white lies sown by adults. The tooth fairy, Father Christmas, the Easter Bunny. One day he will feel indignated that adults don’t have the same honesty as he once had. But by then he will have told a white lie himself- to get an extra ten minutes outside playing football, or an extra biscuit from the tin.
He’s the most honest person in the family. What a shame it won’t always stay that way.