My Baby is a Big Fat Liar.

And I'm a sucker. You would think, after three liars children, I would know better. Alas, that is not my way. The Tank (or the Toddler Formerly Known as Baby J) is not yet two and a half and I still believe him.

There are times when he can't lie. One day, he hauled a particularly delicate Lego creation down two flights of stairs (impressive, I know), and made this grim announcement:

"O. gave me this."

O., who is awfully protective in general of his Lego creations, was not home and I really didn't believe The Tank, whose sole goal in life is to get at his big brothers' stuff.

"Did O. give you that?" I asked, looking him in his tiny little eyes.

"No."

And he handed it back to me. He was capable of the initial lie, but his skills just weren't enough to survive an actual question. Plus, even a two year old had to have known that I would never fall for that one. Unlike the other blatant lies, which I do fall for, again and again. Maybe I believe him because he's sometimes brutally honest.

"Are you going to be a good boy at the grocery store?"

"No, I can't."

True. Of course, I went anyway. But you can't say I wasn't warned. So, the Tank has a new lie. Maybe you've heard it. It goes like this:

"One last time, Mom! One last time!"

Although it is very cute, it is still a lie. The Tank loves his school, otherwise known as the drop-in nursery. They sing songs, play and have a tea party every day. Sometimes they do art (sticking stickers on some paper) and sometimes they get candy. All the teachers are really, really sweet and seem to genuinely like kids. In other words, it's a toddler paradise. The Tank knows everyone there, even the teachers not in his room. It takes us ten minutes to leave. I follow him down the hall while he peeks in each door, bidding adieu to all his peeps.

"Bye, Miss Nancy! Bye, Miss Deirdre! Bye, Miss Mel! Bye, Miss Kathy!"

And so on. It's very cute when other toddlers point him out to their parents. At least, I think it's cute. I suspect they might just be telling their mothers something like,

"That's the guy who taught me all the cuss words."

Now it takes us even longer to leave, because he likes to make a pit stop on the big kid playground before we go. He has to slide on every slide, shake a few teachers' hands (already trying to charm his next round of teachers, I think), swing on every swing and generally mark his future territory. The first time I heard "One last time, Mom!" I believed him. Why? Not enough coffee I guess. I got suspicious around the fifth time I heard it and I knew I'd been had by the fifteenth.

It's hard to be assertive with a toddler who's just so darn cute. I mean, was it worth it to say "no" this morning when, after I tried to put on his shirt, he insisted on digging through his clothes to find "my Beatles shirt"? The Beatles shirt was clean, so I didn't really mind. I probably will mind when he keeps wearing it long after it has become a ratty half shirt. Knowing this, I still let him wear it. Because how cute is it when he names all the Beatles? Huh? How cute is that?! Answer: So cute! So go ahead and blame me when he becomes a complete jerk. I'll plead temporary (possibly permanent by then) insanity.

Namasté, y'all!