"spider plays the fool to lure the fly" - Them Crooked Vultures, 'Scumbag Blues'

Scumbag Blues

I can't remember the first time I lied. Once, when I was in Kindercare, I took a doll home that belonged to some other kid. When I got home, though, my grandma asked me whose it was, and I told her. She made me take it back the next day. In second grade, I would read books while the mean old nun taught math. Once, she called home to complain, and when my mother confronted me, I told my mother that the nun was senile and that I would never ignore a teacher. My mother believes me to this day. But the first lie? I'm not sure. The Center for Effective Parenting says that  kids start to lie around preschool age. SC has been lying here and there, and we talk about why that's not right. The problem is, I find his lies hilarious, and it's hard to appear stern. I do it, though -- barely.

So today, we got up to Cleveland to my parents' place. SC and I had a nice afternoon and evening. At bedtime, I gave him a bath, read him a book, and put lotion on him. He decided that he wanted to sleep with my parents, so I did all I could to help him get to sleep before I left the room. And after he was calmed down, and getting tired, he suddenly looked up and saw something gorgeous and orange and forbidden.

A mini bag of Cheetos

Before I could stop him, he was up. He grabbed the bag. "Open it! Can I have it?" he asked, prancing happily around the bedroom.

I shook my head. "No, SC... it's late. And Cheetos are so messy. You're all ready for bed."

So, this tired, slightly spoiled kid throws a tantrum. He's on the ground, crying, screaming, and pounding his fists. At first, I ignore him. I'm good at ignoring, and it usually works with him. But today, we're at Grandma and Grandpa's house, so he knows he'll get attention eventually. I ask my mom to leave the room and I casually sprawl across the bed, looking over the side at SC.

After another minute, I start to cry, too. I mimic the way that he gasps, and sobs, and even the way he pounds his hands into the ground. Sometimes this will make him laugh and he'll move on from the tantrum. After a minute, he looks up, and I ask him why he stopped. Through his tears, he gasps, "You're doing it wrong."

I pause quizzically. "How SHOULD I be doing it?", I ask.

He stands up and walks over to me, glancing at the door to make sure that Grandma doesn't walk in.  Then he studies my face. "You've got to make your eyes like THIS", he says, scrunching them up. I scrunch mine up as well. He protests. "You're not doing it right. Like THIS!". We try again and again. After each instruction, I ask him to demonstrate.

He falls on the ground and throws a tantrum, authentically, and then gets back up.

Then it's on to the nose. I don't flex it in the right way, he says. He shows me the right way a few times. After that, he complains about the tone of my crying. "No one will believe you like that," he warns.

After some instruction, he hears someone walking up the stairs, so he darts to the other side of the room and throws himself down on the floor. He doesn't throw a tantrum anymore, though. My mother walks in, and I get SC "calmed down", and I leave the two of them there.

What the hell? Do you know what this means? He's been playing me all along. That little fucker. All of his tantrums... all of his pouting. He's calculated. He plans. He's brilliant and deceptive, and manipulative. In short... he's me. I've bred my very own sociopath. Sure, sometimes he has real emotions - but he knows how to play the people around him. I'm raising a politician.

I don't know why he chose to show me, though. It was a miscalculation on his part. From now on, I'm on to him. Bring it on, little guy. Bring it on.