Herbert Did It!

I first heard the story about George Washington and the cherry tree when I was in third grade.  According to the teacher, George was a young lad when he received a new hatchet.  Looking around, he spotted a cherry tree, and without thinking about consequences, he gave the tree a good whack. 
 

When George’s dad saw the fallen tree, he put two and two together.  Obviously, he knew his son was likely the lumberjack guilty of the crime.  Our teacher paused here, asking the class what they thought happened next.  Hands flew up into the air.  
 

A few theories of the class:  He ran away.  He hid the hatchet under his bed and said someone stole it.  He said a stranger cut it down.  He said a big gust of wind blew it over.  The consensus was that George probably lied so he wouldn’t get in trouble, but as the teacher continued the story, most of us were shocked. 
 

"I cannot tell a lie.  I chopped down the cherry tree," he confessed.  The teacher suggested that George didn’t get sent to his room or even in a bit of trouble because he’d told the truth.   
 

As a group, my class really didn’t grasp the lesson about being honest.  Days later, we spent an entire afternoon recess sitting at our desks, heads down, in the dark while waiting on someone to fess up to stealing an apple from our teacher’s desk.  Though I didn’t know the term irony then, it was ironic the connection between an apple and the apple tree story.   

 

 

One at a time, we were called to the teacher’s desk to shed any light we might have on the missing apple.  The mystery was never solved, and thankfully, recess was later granted.   
 

While watching a morning news show, I was reminded of the apple incident when they did a segment on why people lie, especially kids.  Interestingly, all kids begin to lie around the ages of 3 to 5 years old.  It’s actually a developmental step.  This is a common timeframe for imaginary friends to crop up, too.   
 

"Who got into the cookies?"  I asked my then very young sons. 
 

"I didn’t do it.  That other boy did," one replied.   
 

"What other boy?  Your brother?" 
 

"No, that boy Herbert.  He took them.  Oreos are his favorite," he replied with cookie crumbs on his lips.   
 

Unaware of any child with that namesake in our household, I figured out that Herbert was imaginary.  I escorted Herbert to the front door, helped him zip his imaginary coat, and sent him on his way.   
 

"Sorry, Herbert," I told thin air, "You can’t be around here if you’re going to eat all the cookies without asking."  All was good until Herbert’s brother showed up.  Strangely enough, he wouldn’t tell his name, and he had a penchant for M&M’s. 
 

Once the imaginary friend isn’t a reliable scapegoat, a child will look for a real, live, in the flesh person to blame. 
 

"Did you write your name on the wall?"  I asked our oldest son.  I knew he did it.  Only two of us in the house with opposable thumbs knew how to write.     

 

 

"I didn’t do it!  He did it!" the oldest professed while pointing to his baby brother.  The same two-year-old brother who wasn’t allowed to use crayons just yet because he tried to eat them.  After some slight prodding, he admitted to writing his name.  
 

All children tell lies, and my children are no exception.  As they grow older, they learn the difference between reality and fantasy.  At least as parents, we hope they do.  
 

 

Much time has passed since Herbert visited and the wall sported a name scribbled by a preschooler.  My children grew and understood the importance of honesty and not breaking trust.  For years, I looked at the wall that I tried to clean with everything imaginable – nail polish remover, rubbing alcohol, stain removers.  It wasn’t until I got a "Magic Erase" that I was able to remove the crayon. 

 

And, like George Washington, I cannot tell a lie.  I miss my son’s name on the kitchen wall – a reminder that my kids were once little ones