Sam Was Struck by Lightening (and other tall tales)

I remember Savannah going through an amusing stage when she was about Sam's age, which saw her making up the funniest stories and passing them off as fact to family members and strangers alike. Our favourite was "One time, my mom left me in a river of lava. It burned off my legs." Another time, while I was babysitting the girls—and Jazzie might have been 18 months old—Janey called to check in, and Savannah told her that her baby sister had fallen backwards off some patio furniture into the swimming pool. Never happened.

Turns out that Sam's bent the same way. He likes to play a starring role in exciting stories. On the drive to school the other day he set in with some difficult questions about lightening. "Does it ever hit people?" he asked? Okay, first of all, why does he do this to me? He's 4. Can't we talk about how choo-choo trains get their power? I briefly considered going the "Of course not. Bad things never happen" route, but I had to hedge against the possibility that he'd heard something on the radio and this was a test of my honesty. So I conceded that it happens very rarely and mostly to golfers. Then I fumbled through the tougher follow-up questions: "Does it hurt? Can you get dead?" Bloody hell. What was this?

This was research. Once he had the facts straight, he put on his story voice and told me that when he was a very little baby and I wasn't looking at him, he was hit by lightening. That it made him "glow up in the dark" as he calls it, but it didn't hurt at all, because babies don't feel eel-leck-TRISS-ity. When I said that I don't remember that happening, he reminded me of the foundational detail: I wasn't looking. Ohhh, that explains it. Well, then. That must have been quite a shock. We've revisited that scene several times since. It's the next generation "Burning Lava" story.

The trouble with the tall tales is that they're taking the place of most reality-based conversation. "How was school, Sam?" is bound to be answered with a wildly improbable list of calamities, abuse, failed projects and superhuman playground feats. One evening, he added "And I learned French: 'mimsy' means 'I hope you're having a nice day.'" So jaded was I about these reports, I chalked up the "French lesson" tidbit to just another Sam Story ... until the first JK newsletter came home. Twenty minutes daily. Ah, c'est vrai.

This week, Sam revealed his narrative power to bemuse and then, later, to embarrass. Picking him up on Tuesday evening, I noticed the class had done one of those thematic Q&A sheets that has a common question in the middle of the page, and little squiggly lines leading out to various answers attributed to the students. The question of the week was "What are you grateful for?" I read clockwise around the answers, scanning for Sam's name, so I got a good taste of the group response—kids grateful for their parents' hugs, their baby brothers, their food, their pets. Finally, I spotted Sam's answer: "Sam is grateful for his mom buying him a new skateboard." I didn't buy Sam a skateboard. I'm not buying Sam a skateboard. Did Sam misunderstand the question? I called him on it at the cubbies, and he smiled and said he was just imagining that he'd like that. Over his shoulder, one of the teachers started chuckling and admitted, "We were wondering..."

Thankfully, Arlene (Tracey's new nanny) didn't have to wonder long when Sam regaled her with stories over supper about how sometimes, when his parents are not in the room, he pops in a Grown-Up Movie that shows people's bums (and their penises?", Carter asked. "Oh yes, their bums and their penises"). "Ohhhh..." said Arlene. Okay, we don't own that movie. Really, we don't. And he's not home alone much either! Luckily, Tracey overheard the story and called out a chiding "Sammmm?" and he cut the tale short.

When I saw him later that night, I asked him about this so-called "bum movie" and he backpeddled into a corner: "I borrowed it," he offered, "Then I gave it back to that person." I pressed my advantage: "Who was it?" Gulp. "It was in my imagination!" he confessed. I'm only a little concerned that his imaginary movie sounds like porn: in fact, I'm pretty sure he simply couldn't think of anything funnier to say than "bum". But I'm half-tempted to write a pre-emptive note to the teacher, "Please don't call Child Services if..."

So how long before Sam's "imagination" becomes Sam's "big fat lie"? I laughed when he begged off finishing his breakfast this morning, explaining that somehow, when I wasn't looking, caffeine got on it ... and we all know that kids shouldn't have caffeine. He thinks he's hit on quite the little trick, that blanket phrase — "When you weren't looking..." What he doesn't realize is that I see more than he knows. That's the way of the Mother. It helps that he's incredibly transparent, always overtly covering his tracks by blatantly asking me not to fact check his tales. "That new girl over there is called Mambooboola. Umm, but don't say 'hi Mambooboola' to her...."

Lightening. Skateboards. Bums. Caffeine. Mambooboola. He's got 1000 of them, I'll bet. I'm sure we haven't heard the funniest, the craziest, the most embarrassing tall tale. But, as difficult as it is to get the plain and simple truth out of him sometimes, I'm a little proud of Sam's ability to spin a story out of absolutely nothing. I imagine him as a film director, a novelist maybe. Of course, in the last Q&A, Sam declared that he'd be a doctor when he grew up. I wonder what the story is there.