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Why You Should Always Tell Your Kids the Truth<br>I learned the hard way that lying to your kids backfires

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Let your kids decide what to believe (sometimes). (Photo: Katie Arnold)

Published January 24, 2019 12:00AM

Raising active kids requires patience, stamina, and ingenuity. Many days simply getting out the door with a full complement of mittens, hats, and boots feels like an exercise in futility. Fortunately, there are tricks for mitigating the logistical and emotional breakdowns:

Minimize transitions, which are a major time and energy suck. If you don’t absolutely need to go home before going to the climbing gym, don’t. Pack their harnesses and just roll from one activity to the next.

When in doubt, always bring an extra pair of socks. You’ll thank me later.

On ambitious outings, bring plenty of snacks, preferably sweets, and give the littles full autonomy over when, what, and how much to eat. Let’s face it, bribery has a place in the outdoors.

And so, too, does fibbing.

I’m not proud to admit this. I strive for honesty in my life and relationships. But occasionally it helps to bend the truth in order to get kids outside and keep them there for longer than five minutes. In my decade on the job as mother, I’ve told my fair share of white lies, including but not limited to:

It’s not that far.

The water’s not cold, it’s just the air!

It’s not very steep.

The top is just up there.

One of the first fibs my husband, Steve, and I told our girls, Pippa and Maisy, was that Disney World had closed indefinitely. This was when they were much smaller and begged us to visit, when standing in line at an amusement park with hordes of other people was an abstract idea for them and the wrong kind of “adventure” for us. “Maybe your grandparents will take you!” we’d say encouragingly. Meanwhile, we’re going rafting.

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When I try to rationalize the deceit, I think of that old existential saw: If a tree falls in the woods and no one’s there to hear it, does it make a sound? Telling kids that the conditions suck automatically biases them against cold and wet weather, and hearing us whine gives them permission to gripe, too. If they have the proper gear and it doesn’t feel cold to them, is it actually cold? If we know they’re strong enough to handle the hike and aren’t in any apparent danger, isn’t it OK to downplay the challenges to keep them motivated and moving forward?

As an ultrarunner, I’ve been lied to plenty of times. It’s one of the sport’s time-honored traditions and a mindset that keeps me from quitting in the middle of a grueling effort. Sometimes the one lying is me: You’re doing great, I say to myself. It’s not that far to the next aid station. Sometimes it’s my friends and family who are crewing for me, or people I’ve never met, who lie. Once during a 50K race, a kindly volunteer handed me some pretzels and told me cheerfully, without batting an eye, “The last two miles are just rolling!” when it was a hellish two-mile climb to the finish.

As a parent, though, I’ve discovered that there’s a fine line between omission and deception. A big part of raising children who are competent, independent, and confident in wild places is teaching them to assess risk and effort based on their own barometers. This will help them develop an internal dialogue that works for them, whether as the sweet-talking cheerleader or the tough-talking truth sayer. They can’t manage their own expectations and output if you’re always narrating the story for them. Sooner or later, you have to get out of their way.

As a parent, though, I’ve discovered that there’s a fine line between omission and deception.

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Over the holidays, Steve and I took Pippa and Maisy, now ten and eight, to the Grand Canyon for the first time. I’d managed to score a last-minute cancellation for a cabin at Phantom Ranch, at the bottom of the canyon. Our hike in would entail a seven-mile trek down to the Colorado River and nine and a half  miles and nearly 5,000 vertical feet back up the next day. I knew the girls were physically capable. We’d spent the late summer and fall doing long hikes to high elevations in New Mexico, and we’d learned that nearly every outing has its low point—sometimes several. The trick is to recognize them when they come, stay as positive as possible, and push through till things get better.

As we pulled up to the South Rim just before sunset, I was so giddy for them to witness the canyon’s majesty for the first time that I found myself saying, “The Grand Canyon’s not that spectacular.” It was a dumb joke, the kind that just sort of slipped out in the excitement, exactly the sort my dad would have said in his exaggerated, goofy voice, the one that always told me he was kidding. I thought my strategy would make them gasp with even more amazement when they peered over the edge. I didn’t think they’d believe me.

But...