Liar, Liar Pants On Fire

My husband is a low down, rotten, fibber.  He tells horrible, vicious lies to my four year old... about me.  Alright, so maybe they aren't horrible and, OK, they aren't really vicious, but they are ridiculous stories about me that she instantly believes.

Need proof?  A few weeks ago we were sitting in the breakfast nook, enjoying dinner.  The kids were feasting on (among other things) little cups of Dole pineapple nibblets.  Out of nowhere I hear, "When Mommy lived in Hawaii, she used to pick pineapples!"  I look up and give The Man the dirtiest look I could muster up, which, if you know me, isn't all that menacing.

Sweet Pea: "You DID?"
Me: "No SweetPea, Daddy's being silly.  He's just joking."

I shoot the "stink eye" in his direction again.

I thought our little conversation had set the record straight.  That was, until last night at dinner.  SweetPea was, as always, ever so slowly eating while she was looking over her placemat with a map of the US.  She was retracing the car trip we'd just taken from Houston to Orlando with her finger, when she glanced over to the left side of map.  She pointed to the little islands in the inset picture...

SweetPea: "That's Hawaii, where you were born, Mommy!"
Me: "You're right, SweetPea"
SweetPea: "You used to pick pineapples there."
Me: (rolling eyes) "No Sweetie, I didn't pick pineapples."
SweetPea: (in a sing song voice): "Yeees you diiiid!"

The Man is laughing so hard I'm surprised he didn't shoot rice out of his nose.

Fabulous...my kid believes one of the oldest cliches in the universe about living in Hawaii...about me.  She might as well believe that I used to run around Waikiki in a grass skirt dancing the hula with a surfboard tucked under my arm and a tiki idol around my neck.  I'll have the world know, I haven't worn a grass skirt since I stopped dancing hula in the 3rd grade, I never owned a surfboard, though I did have a boogie board and I have never, ever owned a tiki idol.  Oh wait...there were those tiki idol bookends...but those were my parent's...cough, cough.  OK, well, I stand by the pineapple statement.  The closest I've ever come to picking a pineapple was off the shelf in the produce section at the grocery store.  Alright, so I went to a high school that, when opened in 1973 was built in the middle of the pineapple fields...but I never...picked...pineapples.  Period.

I'm pretty disturbed about these all these lies flying around.  Mostly, I'm upset I haven't found a good story to make up and tell SweetPea about him.  Maybe I'll tell her that her dad is really an alien from outer space...or that he's a really werewolf.  Yeeeaaaaahhh...that'll work!