I lie to my kids all the time, without thinking, in large ways and in small. Yes, I tell them, I will organise a play date with Sammy (I won’t). No, your sister didn’t mean that (she did). Yes, everyone dies, but children don’t die before mummies, and mummies only die when they’re really, really old, so there’s no point in worrying about it now. And yes – of course, a million times yes – that picture of a beetle is the best beetle drawn since a cave-child first drew a beetle.
That last lie is only a half lie to the extent that, even when I am checking myself for overweening parental pride, it is hard for me to judge my children’s output realistically. My daughter’s ability to hold on to the term “solar system” and observe that “the mouth and nose are connected” is evidence of Einstein-like acuity. That wobbly name, written with the front four letters taking up half of the page and the back four crammed into a tiny space that also careens downwards, is penmanship unparalleled.
This reflex is evidence-resistant. A birthday card in which another kid has written all the words in a perfect line, as if using a spirit-level, is because she’s six months older and has a developmental advantage. And anyway, messy handwriting connotes intelligence, everyone knows that, plus my kid can do the splits.
I thought about these delusions this week while reading about the US college admissions scandal, in which wealthy parents were charged with allegedly bribing university coaches and examiners to cheat their kids’ way into college. There was a lot to unpack in this story – not least the fact that the college system is rigged in ways far more insidious than this. But what amazed me most was that it appears the parents also lied to the kids themselves, protecting them from evidence of their own inadequacy.
The habit, from birth, of cushioning one’s child from failure isn’t just a matter of pride: it’s laziness, too. I see it in myself every time I let my child win a board game because it’s easier than dealing with the overreaction if they lose. I’d rather see them happy than sad, of course, but I’d also rather have the extra three minutes of peace and quiet, even if that means letting them fake-win.
And so, I guess, I think I can see how some of these parents might have got there. Actually, my kid is just as clever as the kids acing their entrance tests without help; she’s just not good under pressure. Or exam intelligence isn’t her kind of intelligence. Or she’s six months younger, and has a developmental disadvantage. Or we, mere millionaires, are competing with legacy candidates and the billionaire class. There are a thousand rationalisations that might process the cheating as an act merely of levelling the playing field.
It is absurd, of course. Those with money for such shenanigans are so far ahead of the field that, without even trying, they have already won. The lying to oneself is the biggest scam of all. “I win!” yells my child, and instinctively I say, “It’s not a competition, we’re just practising,” although it is a competition and, according to the whole of self-help, the only way to win is to be OK with failure. This seems like a big life lesson for a four-year-old, given that most people 10 times her age can barely handle it. “OK,” I say, vowing to bring up the integrity of losing, not now but definitely next time.
• Emma Brockes is a Guardian columnist
