Sorry, Mickey

My daughter pondered the evidence in front of her. I saw her watching me. What had I done? It was just a little lie, but it was told under the watchful eye of a happy mouse and that made it all the worse.

“But I’m not under 10,” my 12-year-old daughter said to me.

Despite the validity of her statement, I still held in my hand one amusement park ticket marked “child.” I had saved $10 by lying about her age. I actually hadn’t lied as much as I’d omitted the truth. We’d already spent so much money that week and I really wanted the discount. Besides, who was I hurting? A rich corporation with more money than they could handle?

As I looked into my daughter’s eyes, I realized that I had just sacrificed something precious by veering from my usually solid course of honesty. I had killed my credibility.
I panicked, wishing I had stayed strong in the way I always hoped my daughter would in these situations. I had just undone all the years of lectures on the evils of lying. Now my child knew the truth - everyone has a price.

What’s worse, it had happened just the way we always warned my daughter it would. There was peer pressure (at least perceived) to commit the lie. People whispering in my ear (figuratively), “Go ahead. No one will know.”

You see, my husband had told me he bought a child’s ticket for my daughter at this same theme park the previous summer. It worked out fine because she wasn’t in line with him.

I swear my husband said this, although he later denied it.

I stood solo in a long line the day we all visited the park. My family and friends waited in the crowd. Approaching the booth, I thought, “If I buy my daughter a full-priced ticket, everyone will think I’m ridiculously square for being so honest.”

Although I’m on the up side of 30, I still entertained this juvenile thought. It goes back to my childhood when I always felt like an outcast for playing it so straight.
Before my adult logic could kick in, I found myself standing at the ticket booth saying, “Two adults and one child.”

The knot of guilt clenched in my stomach. I went through all the ways this person might possibly know that my little girl was a preteen. In the end, she didn’t have a clue about my dishonesty. I wiped the filth from my dirty ticket as I walked back to my group.

I told them what I had done, fully expecting approval and acceptance, maybe even respect. See, I’m not afraid to break the rules. I’m more than just the violin-playing, never-smoked-a-cigarette, straight-and-narrow girl they thought they knew.

They all shot me looks.

“You bought a child’s ticket?” my husband said.

“You told me to,” I said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You said you did the same thing last summer.”

I shrunk under the gaze of the group. Then, another voice distracted me from my quandary.

“But I’m not under 10,” my daughter said innocently.

She had caught me in a lie of convenience. This was a disconnect from everything we’ve taught her over the years. We’re really very honest people.

But that’s how lies happen. Even the most honest person will be tempted to lie if they think they can get away with it and if the reward is big enough. What’s more, lies always end like this one, with the co-conspirators denying participation, leaving the perpetrator bearing all the guilt.

As I looked into my daughter’s eyes, I longed to hold three adult tickets in my hand instead of two adult, one child. That way, I would still have leverage the next time I told her that lying erodes character.

Just what I want to bestow upon my blossoming teenager - the gift of moral vagueness. Nothing’s black and white. Truth is a messy, hazy shade of gray in which saving $10 at a theme park constitutes grounds for deception.

Here’s what I want to say to my daughter now that I have a forum. We are all fallible. What makes us even more fallible is our deeply held insecurities and our insatiable need for acceptance.

Listen to that little voice in your head that tells you, “Stop!” Heed that knot in your stomach. When you fail to do so, at least admit your mistakes, learn from them, and make sure they don’t permanently tarnish your credibility.

Do what I say, not what I do and you’ll be just fine. Now I just have to apologize to that stinkin’ happy mouse.