T marks the spot.

I can not tell a lie. If you are fortunate enough to be my friend, or a family member, you already know this is true. I wish I could tell a lie, but alas, I was born with a conscience that is lethal. I have countless stories from growing up where I totally ratted myself out, just because of that stupid conscience. I guess I should be happy about it, but to tell the truth, I would be nice to be able to to lie and get away with it. Sometimes.

I am finding that Thomas has been given this same gift. Well, it's really an achilles heel, not a gift. But for a mommy, it’s the jackpot of little-boy characteristics.

Yesterday, Clara was sleeping and Thomas and I were doing “the usual.” We hang out in the sewing room, talk, play, watch Curious George together, or just sit and veg. He left the room for a few minutes. I thought he was going downstairs to get a game, but it took him longer than expected to return. When he got back into the room, he had this look on his face. I knew the look. It was the same look I had on my face when I drove my Mom’s car into the driveway and hit my Dad’s truck that was parked there. It was that “Oh, shizam! What-did -I-just-do-and-why-can’t-I-lie-about- it look!?”

M: Thomas, what were you just doing?
T: You don’t need to go out there mom (This is what us overly-honest people do instead of lie, we just talk around the question instead of answering it.)
M: Thomas, you need to show me what you did. I will not get mad, just be honest.
T: I was just making a whole bunch of T’s.
M: Show me.

He proceeded to walk around the upstairs and show me the countless number of T’s he created. On the walls, on his dresser, on the bed, on the closet door, and a few other choice places scattered about.

T: But Mom, look at this one. It’s a T, and an O. It’s my name!

WHAT DO YOU SAY? I have written about this problem before. I have such a hard time not laughing. The teacher was coming out and all I could think was, "good job!” Of course I didn’t say it.

M: Thomas, those are very nice T’s but you do not write on the walls…or anything else. You are going to need to clean all those up.
T: Okay mom, I’m sorry I made all those T’s.
M: It’s okay, just never, ever, ever write on the walls again.

Then, about 6 hours later we were getting ready for bed. Thomas brought me into his room, and got down on his hand and knees…

T: Mom, there is one more I need to show you…

He shows me a teeny-tiny T that he written on the base board. If he is anything like me, that itsy-bitsy T was driving him crazy and he had to show me to clear his conscience.

The T is turned sideways, at the very top.

Poor kid.