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Show One good fib diserves another grassroots rtfttimitn -- Copyright 1986 Becky Grass Johnson It was a hot summer's day, three years ago when I spied my four-year-old in the garden. From the kitchen window I watched as she gingerly tore up the last tomato plant, then tossed it aside with the others which were crumpled and dying. A hot anger flushed in my cheeks and I called her into the house for an accounting. I counted to one thousand and thirty-nine as she hesitantly made her way to . the house r It had only been a day or so before that I had taken her to the garden to specifically point out what should never be touched, picked, stepped on or eaten. This had only made it easier for her to identify and eradicate every tomato plant in sight. The obnoxious quack grass and morning glory stood lush and green on either side. I would be mature and cool about this whole thing, I told myself. I would ask just the right questions. It wouldn't be like the time I discovered her with her head and one arm in the cookie jar. The first thing I asked was "What are you doing?" I suppose she figured that if I best policy. We've all seen the movie Pinocchio. Every grade school teacher tells the stories of honest Abe Lincoln and George Washington and the cherry tree. I wanted to really paddle the small seat of this child, but realized if I did, I might lose the chance to teach her instead. I couldn't find a scripture that said, "Thou shalt not pillage the garden," or "Wo unto those who destroy the fruits of the harvest," When my daughter entered the room, I questioned her about the tomato - plants. She obviously-realized obviously-realized the gravity of the sitution and as a means of self-preservation, she fibbed. She fervently denied the escapade I had watched from the window. I instructed her to sit beside me, and as I put my arm around her, I related to her the story of a young boy. This young boy went into his father's orchard with an axe. I explained that the boy probably knew better, but for some reason, this kid made kindling of his father's prize cherry tree. Later when his father discovered the damage, he called the boy to his side and questioned him about the tree. The boy courageously look: his father in the eye and exclaim! "I cannot tell a lie. I chopped fe the cherry tree." How I raved about the yoti boy's honesty! I praised his braver; in the face of punishment! "And," I concluded, "that saa little boy grew up to be the Fall; of our country...Georj! Washington." I could almost see the wta; spinning as my daughter momentarily sat in silence. He suddenly she looked up and said," cannot tell a lie. I broke all y tomato plants." Then we had a long discussicr about what would happen if te were . ever a next time that it plundered the garden. I was near breaking my arm patting myself: the back for a lesson well-tan? when she shot me in the heart k a timid question. "Mommy, is that story about 1 kid chopping down the cherry te true?" Now suddenly, my own integr was on the line. "No, honey it's not." But I'll bet George tore up his I; share of tomato plants! by BECKI GRASS JOHNSON wasn't smart enough to figure it out, I didn't deserve a straight , answer. "Oh, I was just looking for a band-aid for my finger," she innocently in-nocently replied. It is easy for a parent to freak-out when their child fibs to them. No wants to be the only parent on the block whose child attends Point of the Mountain Kindergarten. . Everyone knows that honesty is the |