Before the big event – the telling of a lie – by Matt, I had assumed he was incapable. If something happened and it needed explaining, Matt was the person to go to. When I would get after Christopher, my usual suspect in these matters, he would feed me some wild tale and all I had to do was turn to Matt and ask him if this were true. Matt never showed signs of being uncomfortable in this position. To him, the world was either black or white, and the tale Christopher wove was either true or false. “Um, I think Chris did it.”, came out very matter-of-fact. He would then provide the details and the jig was up. “You always believe him over me!” Christopher would scream, knowing “grounded” could be next on the agenda. Disgusted by the situation, Christopher would stomp to his room. I’m sure he felt betrayed, ratted-out by his little brother. It was like being in a gangster movie, the glare from Christopher could easily be interpreted as, “Look you, you squealed to the coppers, and someday you’re gonna get yours”.
The world of black and white changed to gray with Matt’s first lie. I was walking past Matt’s room and noticed something odd. Matt was playing quietly on the floor and next to him was an old WWII army helmet. The army helmet was Tom’s, something he kept in his closet in our bedroom. I stopped and looked at Matt. Did Matt actually go in our bedroom and rummage around in our closet? Matt looked up at me, waiting for me to say something. I always said something to him as I passed his room, so it was not a surprise to see this expectant look on his face.
“Did you take this?” I asked, picking up the helmet. The look on his face darkened. “Um, no”, he said softly. I tried again, “Matt, how did daddy’s helmet get in here?” I waited for the details in black and white as usual. Matt looked right at me and said, “I think Chris did it”. Somewhere down the hall a frustrated “Ahhh!” arose followed by a hardy laugh from Christopher, “I did not, Matt you little stinker!”
Of course Christopher didn’t. Matt was the one that loved the army gear. He liked to wear the helmet, the flak jacket, the coat, and carry a gun (a nurf blaster). He bought army combat video games, drew army tanks and battle scenes. I had no doubt as to who took the helmet. Matt had just lied.
Oh my! The enormity of this began to register. Matt had just lied, he really lied! I had to scramble to think of what to do next. Telling him he was bad for telling a lie would immediately result in tears and confusion because Matt thought of himself as perfect. To even imply he wasn’t was asking for trouble. His self esteem was the base on which all learning could proceed. If you told him he did a great job, he would simply agree with a “yes”. If you praised him for completing a task, he would smile and agree with you – yep, I’m the greatest. Telling him he’s smart would elicit a “Yes, I am”. So telling him that he lied would mean imperfection . . .a flaw.
Unfortunately, the terrible deed had to be done - I had to tell him lying was bad. He didn’t take well. The tears and anger surfaced immediately, and the anger was pointed directly at me. “No, momma, you lie!” Wow! Great deflection.
It caught me off guard. “I didn’t lie, when did I lie?” I stammered. He proceeded to unveil a long list of events; I said we would go a certain place and we hadn’t, I said we would buy him a certain toy and hadn’t, and the list kept going. My God, this kid had been keeping score! I was flustered. He had artfully turned the conversation around and made me the bad guy. In order to get the focus back on him I had to first own up to all my misgivings, admit I had “lied” and apologize.
We talked a long while. In the end he understood that he had lied and needed to tell the truth. He gave me the detailed rundown, the black and white, of the entire sequence from his room to Tom’s closet and back to his room. It was a relief to me to know he would still do that. He learned the closet was off limits and that he could not take things from our room without asking. He learned lying was a bad idea and being caught in a lie was painful. I learned that I needed to keep my promises better. If we told him we would go somewhere, then we would. I also learned that Matt was just as capable as any child to skew the lines of truth, and another misconception on autism went the way of the dodo. Communication had taken a new direction.
We never again asked Matt to squeal on his brother. Matt’s earlier expression of “I think it was Chris” became “Christopher did it!” – a family joke. Frisbee on the roof? Christopher did it. Toilet stopped up? Christopher did it. Global warming? Yep, Christopher did it. Christopher laughed at these tales mixed with superhuman evil doings and would even claim participation to the wildest of tales. Matt laughed at the tall tales and actually took pride in revealing the ones he had done. “No, I put the Frisbee on the roof” Matt would argue. “No, I did it?” Christopher would shoot back, bringing another round of laughter.
Lying, everybody does it. Even the tiniest of white lies is still a lie. It’s human nature. I was actually proud of Matt’s first lie. It showed him to be just as human as everybody else.
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