Perhaps my biggest fib, the one that will no doubt haunt me in the years to come, is that I have eyes in the back of my head. I know, my mother used to say it to me, countless mothers have used it, but my son may be the most literal soul on the planet. The first time I used it, I was turned toward the stove and my son was jumping on the couch. His eyes grew as wide as plates and he said to me, ‘you have back eyes?’
“Yes, I do,” I replied and thought that was the end of it. Oh no. He was amazed at my super-hero like abilities. He proceeded to ask what other eyes I had. Did I have side eyes? Top eyes? X-ray eyes? All of which I decided I did have, because most moms do have a sort of psychic eye into the havoc their children are causing behind their backs. I thought I was justified. This was 3 years ago, and to this day, my son will still ask me if I have my back eyes on when he wants to jump from couch to chair or swing his light saber at the dog or, dread, pick his nose.
I’m already sweating the day that I have to admit that I don’t really have my super-hero back eyes. They have come in handy so many times, more times than I can count. I admit, I do overuse my back eyes at times, like when my son asks me to look at his painting after every single brush stroke. Thankfully, so far he hasn’t quizzed me on his color palate or his design. He just believes me when I say that it’s awesome.
There are time when using my back eyes actually feels like I’m performing a public service. For example, consider the hundreds of times he asks me to ‘look’ while I’m driving because he’s created yet another ball out of Bendeross. I say, ‘very nice’. He says, ‘do you have you back eyes on?’ I reply with a very upbeat, ‘of course’, and he just says, ‘okay’. It also works when he’s playing with his seat buckle, something I can hear but can’t see. When I tell him not to do it, he just asks, well, you get the idea. Works like a charm.
The problem is that lately, I’ve been having a re-occurring dream that I do actually grow eyes in the back of my head. They would come in handy, sure, but they would be very unattractive. Imagine my hair hanging in them all the time. And if I couldn’t reach them to apply mascara, yikes!
For now, I’m sticking to my story, and I’m keeping my back eyes. This is a fib that I don’t really want to live without. I’ll take my chances that my son will forgive me when he discovers the truth. By then, he won’t think I’m cool or fun or interesting anymore anyway, right?
