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Once I came home drunk and vomited for hours. Mum knelt beside me and held my hair back while I told her it was food poisoning from the chicken, never mentioning the six-pack of Island Coolers I drank over the evening. Later, Mum liked reminding me of that night, laughing about it and teasing me that my own children would soon do the same. Though I’ve never had to hold back hair, I have had some frank conversations with my eldest child now that she’s moved out about all the times she lied. It’s been bonding, in a way, understanding that no matter how close we are to our children – or to our parents – there are still small lies being told. We always called them fibs when we were kids, like somehow that took the sting out.
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As a teenager, I lied to my parents to flex my independence. But even when I lied, I always knew I could phone them in the middle of the night and that they’d come and rescue me, bring me a cup of tea in the morning, and love me just the same. Basically, they trusted me, understanding that as a teenager, it sometimes feels important to lie to your parents, to pretend you’re pushing a boundary that doesn’t really exist.
I try to be more honest with my teenagers now, hoping that it rubs off on them, but knowing also there are secrets they need to keep.
Nova Weetman is a writer for books, film and television based in Melbourne. Her latest book is the memoir Love, Death & Other Scenes.
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