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We live in an age of lies.
Politicians lie.
Athletes lie (thanks Lance – not that I’m still bitter).
And my five-year-old lies.
Whether it’s Donald Trump, Lance Armstrong, or junior telling me he washed his hands after using the potty, it’s hard to tell what’s real from what’s fake these days.
Because of the virus-like spread of lying and how commonplace it has become, the truth has skyrocketed in value. In fact, people who consistently tell the truth have become like precious sparkling diamonds amongst massive piles of cubic zirconia trash.
Now, this isn’t some holier than thou stand up on my soapbox and rant post. In fact, I have a confession to make.
I’m part of the problem. I’ve lied.
In fact, I’ve lied to some of the most precious people in my life–my kids.
I’ve lied and told them that the stove was hot when it really wasn’t.
When they were melting down as we were leaving the house I’ve lied and told them if they didn’t smarten up, I’d leave them at home. (Although I was seriously tempted, I don’t think I could ever really do it…I don’t think 😉
I’ve told them that Santa wouldn’t come until they were asleep.
And I’ve told them that if they kept crossing their eyes they would stay like that.