My Daddy, Purveyor of Truth

By Rebecca Murphy

I was in high school before I realized that my daddy didn't write the song "Ham Bone." At some point in my childhood, he claimed authorship, and who was I to argue?

You have to admit -- it's not something that often comes up in conversation. But the day inevitably came when someone was singing it, and I asked how they knew my daddy's song. Of course, that was followed by an embarrassing, public moment when I realized my mistake.

Little landmines, my husband calls them. My father planted a number of them.
Like the seeds in pizza. See, my daddy isn't too fond of pizza crust. So when we were little, he told us that the center of the pizza had seeds. He, as the caring, protective parent, would graciously eat the dangerous middle of the pizza, sacrificing the "safe" crust to us children. That gig worked for years. Pretty effectively, I might add. I still prefer the crust.

Falling Rock is another one. You probably already know this, but he's not really the beloved lost son of an Indian Chief. And the U.S. government didn't hang those "Watch for Falling Rock" signs on mountain roads in hope of seeing him returned home safely to his family.

And contrary to my early teaching, my father was not a little girl as a child, as he claimed. He had me convinced that female children grow up to become men, and vise versa. Who knows how or why that one got started.

I was also told that biting your fingernails would make worms grow in your stomach. I was skeptical until his sister, my Aunt Brenda, confirmed it when she caught me gnawing on my fingers. I haven't considered it before, but she's his baby sister. He probably honed his routine on her. We've got multi-generational damage at work, here.

His piece de resistance, however, has to be my first foray into questions about the birds and the bees. I think I was about twelve when I heard a word for the first time that I didn't understand. It took me about a week to work up the nerve to ask him about it. With shaky voice and knocking knees, I braved the subject. "Daddy, what does bisexual mean?"

Without a blink, he responded, "sex on a bicycle."

It was years before that little landmine blew up.

My husband is horrified when I tell these stories. Ian insists that kids should always be told the truth, and recalls really counting on the fact that his mother was the one person he knew he could rely on for complete honesty.

I look at it a bit more lightheartedly, I guess. I can't honestly say if I was truly fooled by all of Daddy's claims. I remember searching his face for clues at times, trying to see the twinkle in his eye or a smile on his lips. But even though he was able to fool me more times than not, I also don't have any memory of being upset or bothered when I found out the truth. I know my daddy meant no harm, and it was never malicious. Besides, it makes for great stories.

Do my own kids have a minefield to look forward to? You betcha. Just ask Maggie about the fact that the Wiggles call our house on a regular basis. And she's still young. I'm busy cooking up a few others. Pizza anyone?

Rebecca Murphy is a mother of two and the editor of Metro Augusta Parent and Sass for Women, both published in Augusta, Georgia. You can contact her at editor@augustaparent.com.